MY COMRADE.

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, "With all our glory,
    Can we not win your love?"

I answer, "No, 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."

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 below 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,
    L:ike a race-horse on the track.

Poems of reflection. By Ella Wheeler Wilcox.
Chicago, M.A. Donohue & company [c1905].


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