The Peace of the Hills
By George Sterling
For Alda Lonely, high, and pure forever, Leap the living springs, Where the youngest waters never Tell of sorrowed things. Cool and clear and pebble-paven, Still or quick they lie, Giving calm or aspen haven To the mirrored sky. Where the choric water clashes Link on foaming link, Where the dipping ouzel splashes At the ferny brink, Where the fountain-murmurs falter, Change, but never cease, In the shadow of her altar, Stands the goddess, Peace. Where the shyest birds are mating In the lonest spot, In the quiet stands she waiting, Tho you see her not. Beautiful upon the mountains Are her feet, one saith. What you felt beside the fountains Was, perhaps, her breath. Cloud and cliff and forest-fragrance In her home you find, Voice and touch and gipsy vagrance Of the trackless wind, While the rillet, unreturning, Ever seaward slips, Lifted in incessant yearning To her silent lips.
*Unpublished poem used with permission. Property of Victoria Arriaga. May not be used without expressed written consent.