A Mystery

By John Greenleaf Whittier

The river hemmed with leaning trees Wound through its meadows green; A low, blue line of mountains showed The open pines between. One sharp, tall peak above them all Clear into sunlight sprang I saw the river of my dreams, The mountains that I sang! No clue of memory led me on, But well the ways I knew; A feeling of familiar things With every footstep grew. Not otherwise above its crag Could lean the blasted pine; Not otherwise the maple hold Aloft its red ensign. So up the long and shorn foot-hills The mountain road should creep; So, green and low, the meadow fold Its red-haired kine asleep. The river wound as it should wind; Their place the mountains took; The white torn fringes of their clouds Wore no unwonted look. Yet neer before that rivers rim Was pressed by feet of mine, Never before mine eyes had crossed That broken mountain line. A presence, strange at once and known, Walked with me as my guide; The skirts of some forgotten life Trailed noiseless at my side. Was it a dim-remembered dream? Or glimpse through ions old? The secret which the mountains kept The river never told. But from the vision ere it passed A tender hope I drew, And, pleasant as a dawn of spring, The thought within me grew, That love would temper every change, And soften all surprise, And, misty with the dreams of earth, The hills of Heaven arise.