A Valley
I came, one evening before sunset,
down into a valley, where I was to rest.
In the course of my descent to it,
by the winding track along the mountain-side,
from which I saw it shining far below,
I think some long-unwonted sense of beauty and tranquility,
some softening influence awakened by its peace,
moved faintly in my breast.
I remember pausing once,
with a kind of sorrow that was not all oppressive,
not quite despairing.
I remember almost hoping
that some better change was possible within me.
I came into the valley,
as the evening sun was shining
on the remote heights of snow,
that closed it in, like eternal clouds.
The bases of the mountains forming the gorge
in which the little village lay, were richly green;
and high above this gentler vegetation,
grew forests of dark fir,
cleaving the wintry snowdrift,
wedge-like and stemming the avalanche.
Above these, were range upon range of craggy steeps,
grey rock, bright ice, and smooth verdure specks of pasture,
all gradually blending with the crowning snow.
Dotted here and there on the mountain's side,
each tiny dot a home, were lonely wooden cottages,
so dwarfed by the towering heights
that they appeared too small for toys.
So did even the clustered village in the valley,
with its wooden bridge across the stream,
where the stream tumbled over broken rocks,
and roared away among the trees.
In the quiet air,
there was a sound of distant singing-shepherd voices;
but, as one bright evening cloud
floated midway along the mountain's side,
I could almost have believed it came from there,
and was not earthly music.
All at once, in this serenity, great Nature spoke to me;
and soothed me to lay down my weary head upon the grass,
and weep as I had not wept yet, since Dora died!