Deep purple in the gray of morn,
Rose-tipped in radiances of dawn,
Flecked with soft shadows all the day,
And gilded in the sunset ray,
You tell the hours, as each fulfils,
Its measure, faithful Pelham Hills.
The springtime decks you with its green,
By summer turned to richer sheen;
The autumn paints you violet;
And winter's crown is on you set.
Each season clothes you as it wills, -
Herald of each, brave Pelham Hills.
But deeper yet your lifetide flows,
And unrevealed by buds or snows;
The narrow pathways 'twixt the pines,
The hollow where the lakelet shines,
Or where the brook its light song trills, -
There beats your pulse, fair Pelham Hills.
And they who know you, heart to heart,
Who've owned to you the joy, the smart,
Ambitions changing with the years,
Decreasing hopes, increasing fears,
Feel that you hold them, like the rills
Hid in your clefts, true Pelham Hills.
--Alice Ward BaileyPublished October 1890, The New England Magazine, Volume 9, Issue 2