The Little Hill by Edna St. Vincent Millay

Oh, here the air is sweet and still, / And soft's the grass to lie on;

And far away's the little hill / They took for Christ to die on.

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.