HOW beautiful upon the mountains are
The feet of Love, beneath whose tread there grows
The verdure that is herald of the rose;
And Life, in lead of Love, how art thou fair!
Thy soul, if tremulous, still brave to dare
The upward path, unwitting where it goes,
And all in holy trust of Love, who knows,
To climb at ease from doubt, at rest from care.

Dear Love, that leadeth Life toward the springs
Of Light, what darkness may o'erwhelm her way;
How dense the mist upon the mountain clings;
Though she may see thee not, be thou her stay!
Lo the abyss! take heed, she hath no wings,
But hold her fast,—her feet will still obey.