Beyond the Hills of Dream

by William Wilfred Campbell


 

Beyond the Hills of Dream


 

OVER the mountains of sleep, my Love,
     Over the hills of dream,
Beyond the walls of care and fate,
     Where the loves and memories teem;
We come to a world of fancy free,
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     Where hearts forget to weep;—
     Over the mountains of dream, my Love,
Over the hills of sleep.
 
Over the hills of care, my Love,
     Over the mountains of dread,
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We come to a valley glad and vast,
     Where we meet the long-lost dead:
And there the gods in splendor dwell,
     In a land where all is fair,
Over the mountains of dread, my Love,
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     Over the hills of care.
 
Over the mountains of dream, my Love,
     Over the hills of sleep;—
Could we but come to that heart’s desire,
     Where the harvests of fancy reap,
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Then we would know the old joys and hopes,
     The longings of youth’s bright gleam,
Over the mountains of sleep, my Love,
     Over the hills of dream.
 
Yea, there the sweet old years have rest,
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     And there my heart would be,
Amid the glad ones loved of yore,
     At the sign of the Fancy Free;
And there the old lips would repeat
     Earth’s memories o’er and o’er,
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Over the mountains of might-have-been,
     Over the hills of yore.
 
Unto that valley of dreams, my Love,
     If we could only go,
Beyond the mountains of heart’s despair,
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     The hills of winter and snow,
Then we would come to those happy isles,
     Those shores of blossom and wing,
Over the mountains of waiting, my Love,
     Over the hills of spring.
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And there where the woods are scarlet and gold,
     And the apples are red on the tree,
The heart of Autumn is never old
     In that country where we would be.
And how would we come to that land, my Love?
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     Follow the midnight stars,
That swim and gleam in a milk-white stream,
     Over the night’s white bars. 

Or follow the trail of the sunset red
     That beacons the dying deeps
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Of day’s wild borders down the edge
     Of silence, where evening sleeps;
Or take the road that the morning wakes,
     When he whitens his first rosebeam,
Over the mountains of glory, my Love,
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     Over the hills of dream.
 
Sometime, sometime, we will go, my Love,
     When winter loosens to spring,
And all the spirits of Joy are ajog,
     After the wild-bird’s wing,—
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When winter and sorrow have opened their doors
     To set love’s prisoners free,
Over the mountains of woe, my Love,
     Over the hills of dree.
 
And when we reach there we will know
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     The faces we knew of yore,
The lips that kissed, the hands that clasped,
     When memory loosens her store,
And we will drink to the long dead years,
     In that inn of the golden gleam,
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Over the mountains of sleep, my Love,
     Over the hills of dream.
 
And all the joys we missed, my Love,
     And all the hopes we knew,
The dreams of life we dreamed in vain,
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     When youth’s red blossoms blew;
And all the hearts that throbbed for us,
     In the past so sunny and fair,
We will meet and greet in that golden land,
     Over the hills of care.
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Over the mountains of sleep, my Love,
     Over the hills of dream,
Beyond the walls of care and fate,
     Where the loves and memories teem,
We come to a land of fancy free,
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     Where hearts forget to weep,
Over the mountains of dream, my Love,
     Over the hills of sleep.