American poet and author (B:1859-08-12 - D:1929-03-26)

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Mist

ON the mountain side they fashion,
Those rifting shreds of storm,
A figure of strange passion,
A winged and sworded form.
Majestic, wild, colossal,
With angry arm thrown high;
Those swaying shoulders jostle
The glory from the sky.
Then flows the happy hour.
That tyrant of the mist
Turns to a wavering tower
And melts in amethyst,
Foretelling thus the cycle
' O speed it, Holy Dove!'
When the Archangel Michael
Shall vanish into Love.



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