Sunset on the Bearcamp by  John Greenleaf Whittier�(1807�1892) | 
								
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					A GOLD fringe on the purpling hem Of hills, the river 
					runs, As down its long, green valleys falls The last 
					of summer's suns. Along its tawny gravel-bed, 
					Broad-flowing, swift, and still, As if its meadow levels 
					felt The hurry of the hill, Noiseless between its 
					banks of green, From curve to curve it slips: The 
					drowsy maple-shadows rest Like fingers on its lips. 
					 A waif from Carroll's wildest hills, Unstoried and 
					unknown; The ursine legend of its name Prowls on its 
					banks alone. Yet flowers as fair its slopes adorn As 
					ever Yarrow knew, Or, under rainy Irish skies, By 
					Spenser's Mulla grew; And through the gaps of leaning 
					trees Its mountain-cradle shows,� The gold against the 
					amethyst, The green against the rose.
  Touched by a 
					light that hath no name, A glory never sung, Aloft on 
					sky and mountain-wall Are God's great pictures hung. 
					How changed the summits vast and old! No longer 
					granite-browed, They melt in rosy mist; the rock Is 
					softer than the cloud; The valley holds its breath; no 
					leaf Of all its elms is twirled: The silence of 
					eternity Seems falling on the world.
  The pause 
					before the breaking seals Of mystery is this: Yon 
					miracle-play of night and day Makes dumb its witnesses. 
					What unseen altar crowns the hills That reach up stair on 
					stair? What eyes look through, what white wings fan 
					These purple veils of air? What Presence from the 
					heavenly heights To those of earth stoops down? Not 
					vainly Hellas dreamed of gods On Ida's snowy crown! 
					 Slow fades the vision of the sky; The golden water 
					pales; 50 And over all the valley-land A gray-winged 
					vapor sails. I go the common way of all: The 
					sunset-fires will burn, The flowers will blow, the river 
					flow, When I no more return. No whisper from the 
					mountain-pine Nor lapsing stream shall tell The 
					stranger, treading where I tread, Of him who loved them 
					well. | 
				 
				
					By  John Greenleaf Whittier�(1807�1892) 
					Listed April 26, 2014 | 
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