Where the grim old "Mount of Lamentation"
    Lifts up its summit like some great dome,
I list for the voices of Inspiration
    That rang o'er the meadows and hills of home.
I catch sweet sounds, but I am not near them,
    There are vast, vague oceans between us rolled;
Or it may be my heart is too full to hear them
    With the eager ear that it lent of old.

It is full of the joy of to-day--and to-morrow,
    Which smiles with a promise of fresh delight;
And yet my honey is galled with sorrow
    As I think of the loved ones out of sight.
I wonder so soon if the dear old places
    Are growing used to my absent feet,
I wonder if newer and fairer faces
    To the hearts that housed me seem just as sweet.

I know on the world's great field of battle
    When a comrade falls out how the ranks close in;
The strife goes on with its rush and rattle,
    And who can tell where he late has been?

But through life a grafted vine I may wind me
    About old Eastern homes at length,
The roots of love that I left behind me
    In Western soil will keep their strength.
Though dear grows the "Mount of Lamentation."
   And dear the ocean, and dear the shore,
I shall love the land of my Inspiration,
   Its lakes, its valleys, its tried hearts, more.

Poems of reflection. By Ella Wheeler Wilcox.
Chicago, M.A. Donohue & company [c1905].

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