The Joy of the Hills

I RIDE on the mountain tops, I ride;

I have found my life and am satisfied.

Onward I ride in the blowing oats,

Checking the field-lark’s rippling notes—

Lightly I sweep

From steep to steep:

Over my head through the branches high

Come glimpses of a rushing sky;

The tall oats brush my horse’s flanks;

Wild poppies crowd on the sunny banks;

A bee booms out of the scented grass;

A jay laughs with me as I pass.

I ride on the hills, I forgive, I forget

Life’s board of regret—

All the terror and pain

Of the chafing chain.

Grind on, O cities, grind:

I leave you a blur behind.

I am lifted elate—the skies expand:

Here the world’s heaped gold is a pile of sand.

Let them weary and work in their narrow walls:

I ride with the voices of waterfalls!

I swing on as one in a dream—I swing

Down the airy hollows, I shout, I sing!

The world is gone like an empty word:

My body’s a bough in the wind, my heart a bird!