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by Hilda Conkling

In Mexico a mountain stands alone.
It looms above me . . . a joy strikes my heart;
I see its transparent colors, its long opal hair . . .
But the moon would make it shine
A heap of silver.
My thoughts are gone from me
Because of that splendid trembling iridescent thing . . .
I know it will fade,
I know it must go.
Songs float over its crest . .
. Dusk is coming on . . .
I will touch the mountain!
My fingers touch air.
The broad bright country sways in folds
Like long slow waves . . .
If all the hills were water rising and falling
This would be the highest wave,
This would be the white-hooded wave,
This would be the great wave for sea-gulls to follow!