"The Little Hill" by Edna St. Vincent Millay (1892-1950)
And there's a hill across the brook,
And down the brook's another;
But, oh, the little hill they took,–
I think I am its mother!
The moon that saw Gethsemane,
I watch it rise and set;
It has so many things to see,
They help it to forget.
But little hills that sit at home
So many hundred years,
Remember Greece, remember Rome,
Remember Mary's tears.
And far away in Palestine,
Sadder than any other,
Grieves still the hill that I call mine,–
I think I am its mother !