  YOUNG on the mountains and fresh As the wind that thrills her hair, As the dews that lap the flesh Of her feet from cushions of thyme; While her feet through the herbage climb, Growing hardier, sweeter still On rock-roses and cushions of thyme, As she springs up the hill! A goat in its vaultings less lithe, From rock, to a tuft, to a rock; As the young of wild-deer blithe, The young of wild-deer, yet alone: Strong as an eaglet just flown, She wanders the white-woven earth, As the young of wild-deer, yet alone, In her triumph of mirth. She will be Mother of God! Secret He lies in her womb: And this mountain she hath trod Was later in strength than is she, Who before its mass might be Was chosen to bear her bliss: Conceived before mountains was she, Before any abyss. The might that dwells in her youth Is song to her heart and soul, Of joy that, as joy, is truth, With its jubilant glee and sweeps, O fairest, her breast, her throat, Her mouth, and magnanimous leaps, As the mountain-lark’s note! Across the old hills she springs, With God’s first dream as her crown: She scales them swift, for she brings Elizabeth news of grace. The charity of her face Is that of a lovely day, When the birds are singing news of grace, And the storms are away. |
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