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Here further
up the mountain slope
Than there was every any hope,
My father built, enclosed a spring,
Strung chains of
wall round everything,
Subdued the growth of earth to
grass,
And brought our various lives to pass.
A
dozen girls and boys we were.
The mountain seemed to
like the stir,
And made of us a little while--
With always something in her smile.
Today she
wouldn't know our name.
(No girl's, of course, has
stayed the same.)
The mountain pushed us off her
knees.
And now her lap is full of trees.
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