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In the Morning cover

In the Morning

Chapter 36: THE HAPPY VALLEY.

By Willis Boyd Allen

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About This Book

A sequence of lyric poems that meditates on dawn, nature, and spiritual feeling, often deploying mountain, forest, and seaside imagery to probe grief, consolation, and renewal. Poems move among quiet pastorals, occasional and domestic verse, devotional hymns, translations, and lighter nonsense pieces, following seasonal rhythms and holiday observances. The voice shifts between elegiac introspection and bright affirmation, favoring sensory detail—birdsong, running water, sunlight—and a consolatory outlook that finds moral and emotional sustenance in simple scenes and ritual moments.

THE HAPPY VALLEY.

Far away there sleeps a valley,

Cradled by the mighty hills,

Lulled to rest by sweetest music,—

Whispering winds and laughing rills.

Naught it knows of stormy passion,

Pestilence, or war’s alarms;

O’er it graze the peaceful cloud-flocks,

And the everlasting arms

Of the mountains, underneath it,

Fold it closely to their breast,

While at nightfall, on its bosom,

Golden moonbeams softly rest.

Seasons come and seasons go,—

Summer heats and winter’s snow,

Spring’s surprises, autumn’s peace,

Indian-summer’s golden fleece,

Purple-bordered, crimson-clasped,

By a hand already grasped

That hath costlier treasures brought

Than the wandering Argonaut.

A solemn hush is in the air.

Happy voices die away;

Dark-robed fir-trees murmur, Pray!—

Pray for Summer, young and fair.

Crosses wave,

Souls to save,

Chant a requiem o’er her grave.

Dead! the weeping autumn wind

Shrouded her in fallen leaves;

Dead! amid her golden sheaves,—

Pray—ye that are left behind!

Crosses wave,

Souls to save,

Chant a requiem o’er her grave.

Pray ye, pray! for Summer lies

Dead, upon the icy ground;

Heap for her a snow-white mound,

While the winter wind replies:

Crosses wave,

Souls to save,

Chant a requiem o’er her grave.

Sweetly, through the low, sad murmur

Of the fir-trees’ requiem,

Flows a song of hope and gladness,

Strong, triumphant over them.

Summer is not dead, but sleepeth!

Soon the maiden shall arise,

And the world again be gladdened

With the sunshine of her eyes.

Then the valley, too, shall waken

From the pale trance of her night;

Breezes soft shall kiss her forehead,

Radiant in the morning light.

Years may come and go, but ever

Shall the valley rest among

Mountain mists and golden moonbeams;

While the hills, with myriad tongue,

Lullabys shall croon above it,

Streamlets laugh, and harebells chime,

Fir-trees murmur, cloud-lambs wander,

Storms chant harmonies sublime.

And for those who love the valley

Peace and rest are waiting there,

With the seasons onward moving,

Each more gladsome, each more fair.