I love hiking in the mountains. What a beautiful sight it is when the sun rises and sets behind the mountains. How lovely are the sheep and goats grazing in the mountains in the afternoon! We have selected a short mountains poems that describe the beauty of the mountains. The topics are covered: Black mountain poems, Climbing mountain poems, Cold mountain poems, Blue mountain poems.
Wonderful and Grand
James G. Clarke
I saw the mountains stand
Silent, wonderful, and grand,
Looking out across the land
When the golden light was falling
On distant dome and spire;
And I heard a low voice calling,
“Come up higher, come up higher,
From the lowland and the mire,
From the mist of earth desire,
From the vain pursuit of pelf,
From the attitude of self;
Come up higher, come up higher.”
The mountains in their overwhelming might
Moved me to sadness when I saw them first,
And afterwards they moved me to delight;
Struck harmonies from silent chords which burst
Out into song, a song by memory nursed;
For ever unrenewed by touch or sight
Sleeps the keen magic of each day or night.
In pleasure and in wonder then immersed.
The Mountains of Life
The mountains are majestic
Full of beauty and grace
When we approach the mountain
We feel peace in this place.
A storm brewing in the mountains
Can be a scary place
But when the sun shines on the mountain
We love this beautiful place.
Our lives can feel like a mountain
When things are good we sing
But when the challenges of life appear
We shutter at our feelings.
When faced with overwhelming tasks
Think of moving a mountain
Taking one stone at a time and ask
For help from others to move the stone.
Don’t let life overwhelm you
Take one step at a time
And do the best that you can do
And peace will follow you.
So next time you see a mountain top
Admire its beauty
Don’t let the challenges of life you face stop
You from getting to the top!
O Ye Mountains
O ye Mountains, robed in grandeur,
Ye have dazed mine eyes with light,
‘Till all other things lack beauty,
Seeming paltry to your might.
Ye have borne me to your summits
Where the air is heavenly pure.
Now the breath in valleys lurking
Is oppressive to endure.
Ye have opened boundless wonders
Where my fearless eyes could rove.
Now I pine for wide horizons
In the limits of a grove.
But the bondage is less galling
Than unfettered liberty
With no wish, no innate power
To declare my spirit free.
Climb A Little Higher
Ella Flagg Young
Those who live on the mountain
have a longer day than
those who live in the valley.
Sometimes all we need to
brighten our day is to
climb up a little higher.
Sunrise on the Mountains
Poet: Drusilla Mary Child
The mountain peaks cast off their cloaks of dewy mist,
And stand revealed in the pure cold light of morn;
The shadows creep down the mountain to keep tryst
With night, to watch another day new-born.
The sun arising from his bed of rolling clouds
Imprints a burning kiss upon the virgin snows.
A roseate blush the mountain tops enshrouds,
While slowly with the pearly tint it glows.
Soon the mountain crags are bathed in golden showers,
And glorious soar and stand before God’s face.
The bird’s song rings about the radiant flowers,
The sun is in the heavens, in his place.
The Mountain Stream
Ellwood Haines Stokes
A gentle little sheltered stream,
As pure as pure could be;
Came trickling down the mountain side,
Timid and noiselessly.
In modesty it did its work,
And though so wondrous fair.
The busy world had scarcely known,
The little stream was there.
The mosses grew upon its banks.
The ferns with life were green;
And gracefully the wavelets kissed
The flowers that smiled between.
The beautiful was on its cheek,
And beauty at its side;
So beauty claimed the beautiful.
As bridegroom claims the bride.
Its daily task was sweetly done,
For work was happiness;
The sunlight smiled complacently.
And gave to work success:
While moss and fern, and fragile flower,
Each brought a greeting true;
The little maid beneath the hill,
Brought forth her blessing, too.
For lo! this gentle mountain stream,
While blessing ferns and flowers;
Had slaked the little maiden’s thirst
Through the long summer hours.
And when, each day, unconsciously,
Its strength grew greater still;
In grace and beauty flowing on.
It moved the distant mill.
So let my life be hid with God,
So may my heart be true,
And still go forth in quietness.
My little work to do;
And if a fern or humble moss.
My mission be to bless;
Lord, in the small or greater things,
O grant me sweet success!
The Hills Of The Lord
Wlliam C Gannett
God ploughed one day with an earthquake,
And drove His furrows deep!
The huddling plains upstarted,
The hills were all aleap!
But that is the mountains’ secret,
Age-hidden in their breast;
God’s peace is everlasting,”
Are the dream- words of their rest.
He hath made them the haunt of beauty,
The home elect of his grace;
He spreadeth his mornings on them,
His sunsets light their face.
His thunders tread in music
Of footfalls echoing long,
And carry majestic greeting
Around the silent throng.
His winds bring messages to them, –
Wild storm-news from the main;
They sing it down to the valleys
In the love-song of. the rain.
Green tribes from far come trooping,
And over the uplands flock;
He hath woven the zones together
As a robe for his risen rock.
They are nurseries for young rivers,
Nests for his flying cloud,
Homesteads for new-born races,
Masterful, free, and proud.
The people of tired cities
Come up to their shrines and pray;
God freshens again within them,
As He passes by all day.
And lo, I have caught their secret!
The beauty deeper than all!
This faith, – that Life’s hard moments,
When the jarring sorrows befall.
Are but God ploughing his mountains;
And those mountains yet shall be
The source of his grace and freshness.
And his peace everlasting to me.
The Upper Road
Far lie the mountain crests against the sky;
How shall I find my way so lone, so high,
Without a chart, and with a heavy load?
Pilgrim, one certain Guide is thine at will,
Where the road forks, winding o’er plain and hill,
Whichever way seems easier, choose thou still
The upper road.
By brier and bramble hedged on either hand
Often it climbs within a lonely land
Where ‘neath thy stumbling feet sharp stones are strowed.
Yet choose it ever, for beyond it rise
The steadfast peaks that pierce the eternal skies,
They are thy goal; here thy beginning lies,
The upper road.
Comrades may smile, and beckon thee instead,
To take the lower path, so smooth to tread,
Where roses bloom, without a thorn to goad,
A pleasant choice and yet it leads away
From the high mountain tops that front the day.
Turn, pilgrim, turn, and take the wiser way,
The upper road.
On these rough upward paths have climbed the feet
Of all earth’s heroes, all her saints, to meet
Reward and joy, at the sure end bestowed.
Their steps have stumbled, too, their burdens weighed
Heavy as thine; yet forward, undismayed,
They pressed before thee. Choose, nor be afraid,
The upper road.
Henry David Thoreau
With frontier strength ye stand your ground,
With grand content ye circle round,
Tumultuous silence for all sound,
Ye distant nursery of rills,
Monadnock, and the Peterborough hills;
Firm argument that never stirs,
Outcircling the philosophers,
Like some vast fleet
Sailing through rain and sleet,
Through winter’s cold and summer’s heat;
Still holding on upon your high emprise,
Until ye find a shore amid the skies;
Not skulking close to land,
With cargo contraband;
For they who sent a venture out by ye
Have set the Sun to see
Ships of the line, each one,
Ye westward run,
Which cluster in your shrouds,
Always before the gale,
Under a press of sail,
With weight of metal all untold;
I seem to feel ye in my firm seat here,
Immeasurable depth of hold,
And breadth of beam, and length of running gear.
Methinks ye take luxurious pleasure
In your novel western leisure;
So cool your brows and freshly blue,
As Time had nought for ye to do;
For ye lie at your length,
An unappropriated strength,
Unhewn primeval timber
For knees so stiff, for masts so limber,
The stock of which new earths are made,
One day to be our western trade,
Fit for the stanchions of a world
Which through the seas of space is hurled.
While we enjoy a lingering ray,
Ye still o’ertop the western day,
Reposing yonder on God’s croft,
Like solid stacks of hay.
So bold a line as ne’er was writ
On any page by human wit;
The forest glows as if
An enemy’s camp-fires shone
Along the horizon,
Or the day’s funeral pyre
Were lighted there;
Edged with silver and with gold,
The clouds hang o’er in damask fold,
And with fresh depth of amber light
The west is dight,
Where still a few rays slant,
That even Heaven seems extravagant.
Lies on the horizon’s sill
Like a child’s toy left overnight,
And other duds to left and right;
On the earth’s edge, mountains and trees
Stand as they were on air graven,
Or as the vessels in a haven
Await the morning breeze.
I fancy even
Through your defiles windeth the way to heaven;
And yonder still, in spite of history’s page,
Linger the golden and the silver age;
Upon the laboring gale
The news of future centuries is brought,
And of new dynasties of thought,
From your remotest vale.
But special I remember thee,
Wachusett, who like me
Standest alone without society.
Thy far blue eye,
A remnant of the sky,
Seen through the clearing of the gorge,
Or from the windows of the forge,
Doth leaven all it passes by.
Nothing is true,
But stands ‘tween me and you,
Thou western pioneer,
Who know’st not shame nor fear,
By venturous spirit driven
Under the eaves of heaven,
And canst expand thee there,
And breathe enough of air.
Even beyond the West
Into unclouded tracts,
Without a pilgrim’s axe,
Cleaving thy road on high
With thy well-tempered brow,
And mak’st thyself a clearing in the sky.
Upholding heaven, holding down earth,
Thy pastime from thy birth,
Not steadied by the one, nor leaning on the other;
May I approve myself thy worthy brother!
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