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Mountain Tops

by Katherine F. Stone Cook

The grand old mountains lift their granite heads
Beneath the sun, and rain, and arching sky;
Each dawning sunrise finds them still the same,
Unmoved, unchanged, unchangeable for aye.

The storms of winter and the summer's dew
Alike unheeded leave their destined trace,
But still unmoved, in grand simplicity,
Each calmly fills its own appointed place.

The tufted mosses weave their slender web,
As if to tone and soften those stern lines,
And out from many a crevice fringes float
Of hardy rock-ferns and gay columbines.

Who knows what converse these may nightly hold
With yonder stars, their glorious compeers?
Perchance, when all the world is hushed in sleep,
They listen to the music of the spheres.

Climb then, and stand upon the mountain tops,
In that pure upper air, and breathe thy song,
Or from its base look upward to the heights,
And in the shadow of their strength, grow strong.

Then lift again the burdens of the day,
But bear them with a broader, higher aim,
Live with your heart upon the mountain tops,
Although your feet must tread the dusty plain.

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