WE have struggled up the hill-side, <br />We stand upon its brow, — <br />O, lovely as a dream of heaven, <br />The scene before us now! <br /> <br />There singeth past the woodlands, <br />Where the listening aspens quiver, <br />There shineth through the meadows, <br />The beautiful, bright river. <br /> <br />And, farther off, old Ocean <br />Is lying at his rest, <br />With the warm and gentle sunlight <br />Asleep upon his breast. <br /> <br />But low down in the village <br />Is a cottage, white and small, <br />And to me that cottage seemeth <br />More glorious than all! <br /> <br />From out its portal floweth <br />A tide of minstrelsy, <br />That rolleth as a river, <br />And soundeth as the sea! <br /> <br />If in storm-shocks meet its waters, <br />Or in summer quiet glide, <br />A sun that knows no setting <br />Smiles on the crystal tide; — <br /> <br />A sun across whose brightness <br />No lightest cloud is driven, — <br />The constant, kind approval, <br />The blessed love of Heaven.<br /><br />Grace Greenwood<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-poet-s-home/
