Oh, here the air is sweet and still, <br />And soft's the grass to lie on; <br />And far away's the little hill <br />They took for Christ to die on. <br /> <br />And there's a hill across the brook, <br />And down the brook's another; <br />But, oh, the little hill they took,— <br />I think I am its mother! <br /> <br />The moon that saw Gethsemane, <br />I watch it rise and set: <br />It has so many things to see, <br />They help it to forget. <br /> <br />But little hills that sit at home <br />So many hundred years, <br />Remember Greece, remember Rome, <br />Remember Mary's tears. <br /> <br />And far away in Palestine, <br />Sadder than any other, <br />Grieves still the hill that I call mine,— <br />I think I am its mother!<br /><br />Edna St. Vincent Millay<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-little-hill/
