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Sky Mountains
The verdant turf I’ve made my bed,
And daylight sky reads an open book;
Into my hands I had fondly took
And spelled ink characters inside my wandering head.
To hear the songs of freedom and feather,
They have sung in tongues of paper and pen;
None could e’er have trod their steps, nor men.
But what of the cloudlings, lithe of white heather?
A cotton field, with tears of flowers, perhaps
Only the birds, so light and gay, have trod,
And suppose the only one besides our God.
Had our Lord known that for our mass, might heaven's hills collapse?
If thoughts like this have some sense and right,
Then, sky mountains ought to be left in dream;
For the mind’s eye glories oft’ go not as they seem.
But when sunset comes, I’ll think of sleeping on stars tonight.
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