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Poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Out from my window westward I turn full oft my face; But the mountains rebuke the vision That would encompass space; They lift their lofty foreheads To the kiss of the clouds above, And ask, ФWith all our glory, Can we not win your love?Ф I answer, ФNo, oh mountains! I see that you are grand; But you have not the breadth and beauty Of the fields in my own land; You narrow my range of vision And you even shut from me The voice of my old comrade, The West Wind wild and free.Ф But to-day I climbed the mountains On the back of a snow-white steed, And the West Wind came to greet me-- He flew on the wings of speed. His charger, and mine that bore me, Went gaily neck to neck, Till the town in the valley belkow us Looked like a small, dark speck. And oh! what tales he whispered As he rode there by me, Of friends whose smiling faces I am so soon to see. And the mountains frowned in anger, Because I balked their spite, And met my old-time comrade There on their very height; But I laughed up in their faces, As I rode slowly back, While the Wind went faster and faster, Like a race-horse on the track.
Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Ella Wheeler Wilcox's other poems:
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