Lee in the Mountains

It is not the bugle now, or the long roll beating.
The simple stroke of a chapel bell forbids
The hurtling dream recalls the lonely mind.
Young men, the God of your fathers is a just
And merciful God who in this blood once shed
On your green altars fathoms out all days,
And measures out the grace
Whereby alone we live;
And in his might he waits,
Brooding within the certitude of time,
To bring this lost forsaken valor
And the fierce faith undying
And the love quenchless
To flower among the hills to which we cleave,
To fruit upon the mountains whither we flee,
Never forsaking, never denying
His children and his children's children forever
Unto all generations of the faithful heart.

-Donald Davidson