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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 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.

by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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