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Henry Kendall - To a Mountain
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To thee, O father of the stately peaks, 
Above me in the loftier light — to thee, 
Imperial brother of those awful hills 
Whose feet are set in splendid spheres of flame, 
Whose heads are where the gods are, and whose sides 
Of strength are belted round with all the zones 
Of all the world, I dedicate these songs. 
And if, within the compass of this book, 
There lives and glows ONE verse in which there beats 
The pulse of wind and torrent — if ONE line 
Is here that like a running water sounds, 
And seems an echo from the lands of leaf, 
Be sure that line is thine. Here, in this home, 
Away from men and books and all the schools, 
I take thee for my Teacher. In thy voice 
Of deathless majesty, I, kneeling, hear 
God`s grand authentic Gospel! Year by year, 
The great sublime cantata of thy storm 
Strikes through my spirit — fills it with a life 
Of startling beauty! Thou my Bible art 
With holy leaves of rock, and flower, and tree, 
And moss, and shining runnel. From each page 
That helps to make thy awful volume, I 
Have learned a noble lesson. In the psalm 
Of thy grave winds, and in the liturgy 
Of singing waters, lo! my soul has heard 
The higher worship; and from thee, indeed, 
The broad foundations of a finer hope 
Were gathered in; and thou hast lifted up 
The blind horizon for a larger faith! 
Moreover, walking in exalted woods 
Of naked glory, in the green and gold 
Of forest sunshine, I have paused like one 
With all the life transfigured: and a flood 
Of light ineffable has made me feel 
As felt the grand old prophets caught away 
By flames of inspiration; but the words 
Sufficient for the story of my Dream 
Are far too splendid for poor human lips! 
But thou, to whom I turn with reverent eyes — 
O stately Father, whose majestic face 
Shines far above the zone of wind and cloud, 
Where high dominion of the morning is — 
Thou hast the Song complete of which my songs 
Are pallid adumbrations! Certain sounds 
Of strong authentic sorrow in this book 
May have the sob of upland torrents — these, 
And only these, may touch the great World`s heart; 
For, lo! they are the issues of that grief 
Which makes a man more human, and his life 
More like that frank exalted life of thine. 
But in these pages there are other tones 
In which thy large, superior voice is not — 
Through which no beauty that resembles thine 
Has ever shone. THESE are the broken words 
Of blind occasions, when the World has come 
Between me and my Dream. No song is here 
Of mighty compass; for my singing robes 
I`ve worn in stolen moments. All my days 
Have been the days of a laborious life, 
And ever on my struggling soul has burned 
The fierce heat of this hurried sphere. But thou, 
To whose fair majesty I dedicate 
My book of rhymes — thou hast the perfect rest 
Which makes the heaven of the highest gods! 
To thee the noises of this violent time 
Are far, faint whispers; and, from age to age, 
Within the world and yet apart from it, 
Thou standest! Round thy lordly capes the sea 
Rolls on with a superb indifference 
For ever; in thy deep, green, gracious glens 
The silver fountains sing for ever. Far 
Above dim ghosts of waters in the caves, 
The royal robe of morning on thy head 
Abides for ever! Evermore the wind 
Is thy august companion; and thy peers 
Are cloud, and thunder, and the face sublime 
Of blue mid-heaven! On thy awful brow 
Is Deity; and in that voice of thine 
There is the great imperial utterance 
Of God for ever; and thy feet are set 
Where evermore, through all the days and years, 
There rolls the grand hymn of the deathless wave.
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