Valley Low

BY DR. AGONSON

How like a river flows the mist within the valley low,
and like a cataract, the fog pours down that distant knoll,
and like a dream of floating isles these hills rise from the veil.
All like beclouded heaven here! I pause along the trail.
All like save that the air is cold and robs my chest of warmth!
And here my breath is like a fog; my words hang in the air,
they join the mystery of mist! That I should speak, I care;
that I should speak, no one need hear; no other ear but God’s.
So here I cry a babe’s own cry and hope my father hears.
Perhaps someday, after I die, I will be freed from fears.
With stronger chest and greater heart, heaven may be my home;
for now I cannot stay here long, stay up here all alone
while softly rolls the winter’s fog and fills the valley low.