Misty Mountain
I look out my cabin window
In summer as in spring,
In winter or in autumn time,
It matters not at all.
Your peaks are always shrouded in
Low clouds or fog or mist,
All whitish gray, just hanging there
So high upon your face.
Oh, misty mountain, one fine day,
I will ascend your trails
And find your peaks all bathing in
Sunshine, so bright and warm.
But, for now, until that day,
In my chair with wheels, I'll
Keep watching you in clouds and fog
And misty mountain haze.
W.C.Hull © 2014-26-10-870 (E) WIP
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