The Joy of the Hills

By Edwin Markham

1852-1940


I ride on the mountain tops, I ride;
I have found my life and am satisfied.
Onward I ride in the blowing oats,
Checking the field-lark's rippling notes --
         Lightly I sweep
         From steep to steep:
Over my head through the branches high
Come glimpses of a rushing sky;
The tall oats brush my horse's flanks;
Wild poppies crowd on the sunny banks;
A bee booms out of the scented grass;
A jay laughs with me as I pass.

I ride on the hills, I forgive, I forget
         Life's hoard of regret --
         All the terror and pain
         Of the chafing chain.
         Grind on, O cities, grind:
         I leave you a blur behind.
I am lifted elate -- the skies expand:
Here the world's heaped gold is a pile of sand.
Let them weary and work in their narrow walls:
I ride with the voices of waterfalls!

I swing on as one in a dream -- I swing
Down the airy hollows, I shout, I sing!
The world is gone like an empty word:
My body's a bough in the wind, my heart a bird!

DayPoems Poem No. 1264
<a href="http://www.daypoems.net/poems/1264.html">The Joy of the Hills by Edwin Markham</a>

The DayPoems Poetry Collection, www.daypoems.net
Timothy Bovee, editor

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