SIC ITUR AD ASTRA.

I stood in a valley; above me Uprose a mighty hill; The air was vibrant with music Of insect, bird, and rill. The flowers among the grasses About my weary feet Swung all their tiny censers, Till perfume, heavy-sweet, Was shed abroad in the sunlight And wafted to and fro, While droning bees at the altar Their Aves chanted low. A soft breeze touched my forehead, And whispered, “Peace, be still!” But ever above me towered That silent, awful hill, Whose peaks in mists were hidden, Whose slopes were brown and bare; And yet, as I gazed, I murmured, “O God! If I were there!” For I knew that the peace of the valley Was never meant for me; And I longed for the mountain summit,— Its pure winds blowing free, Its life of strength and vigor, Its thoughts of the good and true, Its steadfast crags of granite In the far-off, heavenly blue. I stand in the valley, and ever I gaze at the mountain bare, And I long for a hand to help me— O God! That I were there!