A Mountain Storm
A host of warriors camped about
Yon mountain peak, last night;
The waning moon betrayed them there,
A most impressive sight.
I could not see a face nor form,
The shadows were too high,
But only sabre tips unsheathed,
Beneath the frowning sky.
The thunder cannons loudly roared,
And lightning lanced like pain,
But staunch they stood, in serrous file;
I saw no more for rain.
They must have slipped away at dawn,
For all I see today,
Is just the hill-top crowned with pines,
The same as yesterday.
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Spring
The South Wind croons a lullaby,
Though hills are packed with snow,
The stately pines, like pachyderms
Are weaving to and fro.
The bald-topped mountains, like old men
Are peering row on row,
To mayhap glimpse in yonder glade
The virgin ballet show.
The ballet shiver at the touch
Of passing breath of frost,
An eagle screams from eyrie high,
As though the day were lost.
But dancing sunlight, glinting through
Defeats grim winter's sting,
A bluejay calls to all the world,
"Oh Ho! At last it's spring!"
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