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The Mountain
                                          -by Andrew Young (1885-1971)

The burn ran blacker for the snow
And ice-floe on ice-floe
Jangled in heavy lurches
Beneath the claret-coloured birches.

Dark grouse rose becking from the ground,
And deer turned sharp heads round,
The antlers on their brows
Like stunted trees with withered boughs.

I climbed to where the mountain sloped
And long wan bubbles groped
Under the ice’s cover,
A bridge that groaned as I crossed over.

I reached the mist, brighter than day,
That showed a specious way
By narrowing crumbling shelves,
Where rocks grew larger than themselves.

But when I saw the mountain’s spire
Looming through that damp fire,
I left it still unwon
And climbed down to the setting sun.

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