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Edna St. Vincent Millay - The Little Hill
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Oh, here the air is sweet and still,
And soft`s the grass to lie on;
And far away`s the little hill
They took for Christ to die on.

And there`s a hill across the brook,
And down the brook`s another;
But, oh, the little hill they took,—
I think I am its mother!

The moon that saw Gethsemane,
I watch it rise and set:
It has so many things to see,
They help it to forget.

But little hills that sit at home
So many hundred years,
Remember Greece, remember Rome,
Remember Mary`s tears.

And far away in Palestine,
Sadder than any other,
Grieves still the hill that I call mine,—
I think I am its mother!
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