Its granite rocks thy sire. Where, in that solitude, They call thee “silent” Is One does not prate of power
Its soil thy mother’s breast.
Its fiercest storms thy discipline.
Its smiling peace thy rest.
Among those mountain streams,
Didst thou attune thyself to God
And give thyself to dreams?
Not that an attribute,
A spell, born of thy native hills
Before which, man is mute?
In idle chatter, where
God dwells. And thou
Met Him in silence there!
from The Collected Poetry of Francesca Falk Miller
Chicago: Privately printed, 1956
Its granite rocks thy sire.
Where, in that solitude,
They call thee “silent” Is
One does not prate of power
Available on the Internet Archive: Link
A rare, perhaps unique specimen: an ode to Calvin Coolidge.
This is one in a series of neglected poems taken from the Internet Archive.