The Little Hill

This is the hill, ringed by the misty shire-
The mossy, southern hill,
The little hill where larches climb so high.
Among the stars aslant
They chant;
Along the purple lower slopes they lie
In lazy golden smoke, more faint more still
Than the pale woodsmoke of the cottage fire
Here some Presence takes me by the hand
And all my heart is lifted by the chant
Of them that lean aslant
In golden smoke, and sing, and softly bend;
And out of every larch-bole steal a friend.

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