The Hill

From the hill, I dare extend,
To strains that seem to mend
Each crack of time that nature kept,
Where bees and blossoms softly wept.

They rise upon this scented air
Made high with spirals beyond compare;
Each breath bestowed brings joy anew,
As every world bends forth to view.

Their quiet waits upon me thus,
Filling my heart with sweetest trust,
For every moment dark will break,
Let spirits rise, I’ve no mistake.

• Edward Thomas