There is much comfort in the high hills
And an easing of the heart.
We look upon them, and our nature fills
With loftier images from their life apart.
They set our feet on curves of freedom, bent
To snap the circles of our discontent.
Mountains are moods; of larger rhythm and line,
Moving between the external mode and mine.
Moments of thought, of which I too am part,
I lose in them my instant of brief ills,
There is a great easing of the heart,
And cumulance of comfort on high hills.
by Geoffrey Winthrop Young