I must tell of a soul I met,
Peaceful and strong and free,
Pure in its constancy,
Of a charm that I cannot forget.
Heart-sick, I wearied of life,—
All seemed playing a part,
Nowhere an honest heart,
All the world a wrangle and strife.
Where the glorious mountains laid
Their heads on the breast of the sky
And slept while the wind sang by,—
There my hurrying feet where stayed.
While the glory and peace and rest
Brooded above my thought,
Weary and over-wrought,—
Came the soul, and my life was blest.
