By George Sterling

Often I long, in cities wrung by care,
    Awhile in ancient solitudes to sink,
    And stand delaying at a rillet's brink.
The pilgrim hears but woodland murmurs there,
And water falling with a sound like prayer
    In hidden pools where only thrushes drink,
    The singing silver joining, link by link,
Their shadowed crystal, pure as ocean air.

Hold cool your canyons, O eternal hills!
    For where the voices are not I would be,
Led to your heart by those betraying rills.
        Happy, tho for a little, that release,
    In twilights where old memories summon me
        To drain the lonely chalice of your peace,

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