Song Of The Chattahoochee by Sidney Lanier

…..Out of the hills of Habersham,
…..Down the valleys of Hall,
I hurry amain to reach the plain,
Run the rapid and leap the fall,
Split at the rock and together again,
Accept my bed, or narrow or wide,
And flee from folly on every side
With a lover’s pain to attain the plain
…..Far from the hills of Habersham,
…..Far from the valleys of Hall.

…..All down the hills of Habersham,
…..All through the valleys of Hall,
The rushes cried Abide, abide,
The willful waterweeds held me thrall,
The laving laurel turned my tide,
The ferns and the fondling grass said Stay,
The dewberry dipped for to work delay,
And the little reeds sighed Abide, abide,
…..Here in the hills of Habersham,
…..Here in the valleys of Hall.

…..High o’er the hills of Habersham,
…..Veiling the valleys of Hall,
The hickory told me manifold
Fair tales of shade, the poplar tall
Wrought me her shadowy self to hold,
The chestnut, the oak, the walnut, the pine,
Overleaning, with flickering meaning and sign,
Said, Pass not, so cold, these manifold
…..Deep shades of the hills of Habersham,
…..These glades in the valley of Hall.

…..And oft in the hills of Habersham,
…..And oft in the valleys of Hall,
The white quartz shone, and the smooth brook stone
Did bar me of passage with friendly brawl,
And many a luminous jewel lone
-Crystals clear or a-cloud with mist,
Ruby, garnet and amethyst –
Made lures with the lights of streaming stone
…..In the clefts of the hills of Habersham,
…..In the beds of the valleys of Hall.

…..But oh, not the hills of Habersham,
…..And oh, not the valleys of Hall
Avail: I am fain for to water the plain.
Downward the voices of Duty call –
Downward to toil and be mixed with the main,
The dry fields burn, and the mills are to turn,
And a myriad flowers mortally yearn,
And the lordly main from beyond the plain
…..Calls o’er the hills of Habersham,
…..Calls through the valleys of Hall.

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The Poet And His Songs by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

   The Poet And His Songs

As the birds come in the Spring,
   We know not from where;
As the stars come at evening
   From depths of the air; 

As the rain comes from the cloud,
   And the brook from the ground;
As suddenly, low or loud,
   Out of silence a sound; 

As the grape comes to the vine,
   The fruit to the tree;
As the wind comes to the pine,
   And the tide to the sea; 

As come the white sails of ships
   O’er the ocean’s verge;
As comes the smile to the lips,
   The foam to the surge; 

So come to the Poet his songs,
   All hitherward blow
From the misty realm, that belongs
   To the vast Unknown. 

His, and not his, are the lays
   He sings; and their fame
Is his, and not his; and the praise
   And the pride of a name. 

For voices pursue him by day,
   And haunt him by night,
And he listens, and needs must obey,
   When the Angel says, “Write!”

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