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THE MEET OF THE WINDS.

NO WRITER ATTRIBUTED

A POET there stood upon a hill uprising

To meet each distant smiling of the sun,

Out from the forest multiform its base comprising,

Its leafage fusing in one shadow dun;

With sinuous outline in a summit ending,

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In morning seemed it to the eastward bending,

In eve, as now, its pine-crowned crescent blending

With rays which, falling, sighed that day was done.

And much he saw, his loving eye far reaching,

For all the world around was lower land;

And many spirits mystic truths were teaching,

Nor human they, nor owning mortal bond;

And thus he mused, no man-made limit keeping,

Nor saw he sign of human strife or weeping,

But only dusky waves of forest, sweeping

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