Emily Dickinson's local hill range was the Pelham Hills above Amherst, Massachusetts—rising to almost 450m. At no point did she even visit any actual mountains. Despite this, she turns out to be an important mountain poet.
The mountain sat upon the plain
In his eternal chair,
His observation omnifold,
His inquest everywhere.
The seasons prayed around his knees,
Like children round a sire:
Grandfather of the days is he,
Of dawn the ancestor.
In lands I never saw, they say
Immortal Alps look down,
Whose bonnets touch the firmament,
Whose sandals touch the town, —
Meek at whose everlasting feet
A myriad daisies play.
Which, sir, are you, and which am I,
Upon an August day?
Our lives are Swiss, —
So still, so cool,
Till, some odd afternoon,
The Alps neglect their curtains,
And we look farther on.
The Mountains—grow unnoticed—
Their Purple figures rise
Without attempt—Exhaustion—
Assistance—or Applause—
In Their Eternal Faces
The Sun—with just delight
Looks long—and last—and golden—
For fellowship—at night—
The Mountains stood in Haze—
The Valleys stopped below
And went or waited as they liked
The River and the Sky.
At leisure was the Sun—
His interests of Fire
A little from remark withdrawn—
The Twilight spoke the Spire,
So soft upon the Scene
The Act of evening fell
We felt how neighborly a Thing
Was the Invisible.
Sweet Mountains—Ye tell Me no lie—
Never deny Me—Never fly—
Those same unvarying Eyes
Turn on Me—when I fail—or feign,
Or take the Royal names in vain—
Their far—slow—Violet Gaze—
My Strong Madonnas—Cherish still—
The Wayward Nun—beneath the Hill—
Whose service—is to You—
Her latest Worship—When the Day
Fades from the Firmament away—
To lift Her Brows on You—
How the old Mountains drip with Sunset
How the Hemlocks burn—
How the Dun Brake is draped in Cinder
By the Wizard Sun—
How the old Steeples hand the Scarlet
Till the Ball is full—
Have I the lip of the Flamingo
That I dare to tell?
Then, how the Fire ebbs like Billows—
Touching all the Grass
With a departing—Sapphire—feature—
As a Duchess passed—
How a small Dusk crawls on the Village
Till the Houses blot
And the odd Flambeau, no men carry
Glimmer on the Street—
How it is Night—in Nest and Kennel—
And where was the Wood—
Just a Dome of Abyss is Bowing
Into Solitude—
These are the Visions flitted Guido—
Titian—never told—
Domenichino dropped his pencil—
Paralyzed, with Gold—
flambeau – wood dipped in wax.
Guido – Baroque painter Guido Reni
I have never seen "Volcanoes" —
But, when Travellers tell...
How those old — phlegmatic mountains...
Usually so still —
Bear within — appalling Ordnance,...
Fire, and smoke, and gun,...
Taking Villages for breakfast,...
And appalling Men —
If the stillness is Volcanic...
In the human face...
When upon a pain Titanic...
Features keep their place —
If at length the smouldering anguish...
Will not overcome —...
And the palpitating Vineyard...
In the dust, be thrown?
If some loving Antiquary,...
On Resumption Morn,...
Will not cry with joy "Pompeii"!...
To the Hills return!
The reticent volcano keeps
His never slumbering plan;
Confided are his projects pink
To no precarious man.
If nature will not tell the tale
Jehovah told to her,
Can human nature not survive
Without a listener?
Admonished by her buckled lips
Let every babbler be.
The only secret people keep
Is Immortality.
Bloom upon the Mountain—stated—
Blameless of a Name—
Efflorescence of a Sunset—
Reproduced—the same—
Seed, had I, my Purple Sowing
Should endow the Day—
Not a Topic of a Twilight—
Show itself away—
Who for tilling—to the Mountain
Come, and disappear—
Whose be Her Renown, or fading,
Witness, is not here—
While I state—the Solemn Petals,
Far as North—and East,
Far as South and West—expanding—
Culminate—in Rest—
And the Mountain to the Evening
Fit His Countenance—
Indicating, by no Muscle—
The Experience—