Not for the eye but for the soul to see.
And when at last, among the oaks, we came
Upon the top, a perfect voice
Thrilled in the air like flame--
Was it uprisen death we heard?
Was it immortal youth,
Out of the body, witnessing the truth,
Attesting glory in an angel's voice?
Blindly we listened to the singer and the single strain
Containing joy.
And then the voice was still and all the world and we--
Till "Run," she said, "and bring him back to me!"
I ran, I called ... but in the nearing rain,
No mortal answered, nothing stirred.
Was it uprisen death we heard?
.... Perhaps the hills and night
Had made a prophet of some wandering boy,
Prompting him in that instant to rejoice
As never in his life before.
He must have had his own delight
As well in silence as in song;
For, though we waited long,
He sang no more.

Afterward Celia said: "That voice we heard
Singing among the oak-leaves, and then still,
We cannot answer how it sings or how it comes and goes....
But only that its beauty ever grows
Within us both, in ways no voice has told.
.... So let me be to you. When night has drawn its fold
Of darkness and no word
May reach your heart from mine,
Take then my love, my beauty! Hear me still
When you are old
And I am ageless as a changing hill!
O hear me like that voice at night,
Clearer than sound, nearer than sight,
And let me be--as beauty is--divine!"

There is a hill of hills
That holds my heart on high and stills
All other sound
Than joy.
Robins and thrushes, whip-poor-wills
And morning-sparrows sing it round
With echoes. Waterfalls abound
And many streams convoy
The breath of music. I have found
A hill-path rising sudden on a city-street,
Out of a quarrel, out of black despair,
And climbed it with my winged feet.
It hurries me above
All this illusion, all these ills,
It rises quickly to the shining air.
.... Celia, I hear you on the hill of hills,
Announcing love.

And O my citizen, perhaps the few
Whom I shall tell of you
Will see with me your beauty who are dead,
Will hear with me your voice and what it said!
Let but a line of mine,
A single one,
Be made to shine
With your whole-heartedness as with the sun,
And I shall so consign
Your touch to younger and yet younger hands,
That they shall carry beauty through more lands
Than ever Helen laid her t