I love thee, distant hills, guard of the west,
It matters not in what choice garment dressed
When springtime wraps thee in her veil of green,
Lest working miracles she might be seen,
I find thee in thy resurrection hour,
And faith springs up to see such wondrous power.
The gentle winds have come again to blow
The flowers into bloom where late the snow
Had wrapped them snugly in for winter’s rest.
And now a song comes pouring from thy breast­—
Sweet music from the dancing brook, set free
From icy fetters, rushing on to sea.
The leaves and buds come back to thee again,
The birds have sung them here through sun and rain.
So full of promise thou dost lie
Kissed by the sun and blest with warming sky.