Blue-Hills

Blue-hills in the distance,
Red-hills very near.
Some rise up from child-hood,
And to me are dear.

There's a scale of slide rock,
Peppered on the side.
There's a fringe of barren slope,
Reaching far and wide.

There's a growth of running sage,
Some in single file.
Climbing up the low inclines,
And stretching for the mile.

Sand-mounds trace a pattern,
Like a running stair.
Plots of growth are matted,
Tangled as a pauper's hair.

Blue hills rise above me,
Red hills are a part.
But the cheery hills of childhood,
Forever line my heart.


E.P. 1908 - 1989