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George MacDonald - The Hills
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Behind my father`s cottage lies
A gentle grassy height
Up which I often ran—to gaze
Back with a wondering sight,
For then the chimneys I thought high
Were down below me quite!

All round, where`er I turned mine eyes,
Huge hills closed up the view;
The town `mid their converging roots
Was clasped by rivers two;
From, one range to another sprang
The sky`s great vault of blue.

It was a joy to climb their sides,
And in the heather lie!
A joy to look at vantage down
On the castle grim and high!
Blue streams below, white clouds above,
In silent earth and sky!

And now, where`er my feet may roam,
At sight of stranger hill
A new sense of the old delight
Springs in my bosom still,
And longings for the high unknown
Their ancient channels fill.

For I am always climbing hills,
From the known to the unknown—
Surely, at last, on some high peak,
To find my Father`s throne,
Though hitherto I have only found
His footsteps in the stone!

And in my wanderings I did meet
Another searching too:
The dawning hope, the shared quest
Our thoughts together drew;
Fearless she laid her band in mine
Because her heart was true.

She was not born among the hills,
Yet on each mountain face
A something known her inward eye
By inborn light can trace;
For up the hills must homeward be,
Though no one knows the place.

Clasp my hand close, my child, in thine—
A long way we have come!
Clasp my hand closer yet, my child,
Farther we yet must roam—
Climbing and climbing till we reach
Our heavenly father`s home.
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