Changeless

They cannot change the hills; though they may hew The fir-sweet slopes and cut their roadways through, Yet will they stand, each long-loved mountain face And smile at me from its appointed place; And past their friendly crests the sun shall rise To paint new pictures on the morning skies⁠— They cannot change the hills. They cannot still the winds; the winds that shake The hemlock fragrance free and sweep the lake, The waves at dusk shall whisper to the shore Their pebbled secrets as they did before; The wild white clouds as in the days of old Shall sink to rest in sunset seas of gold⁠— They cannot still the winds. They cannot dim the stars; the crowding camps That dot the dusk with closely-clustered lamps, The jazz, the laughter, and the shrill tin blare Of phonographs, the motor headlight’s flare⁠— These shall be stilled at last—the clamor cease And leave a fir-sweet world of wave-lapped peace⁠— They cannot dim the stars!