Classic Poem

Yonder hill
lifts its blue mist
like a lady a fan,
and lowers it,
enticing you further.
Can you enfold her?—
suppose you do
and only the mist embrace you?—
don't conclude the fan the lady!
Suppose you can't
and the mist slap your face?—
don't conclude the fan a fan,
no lady behind it:
Yonder hill
lifts its blue mist
like a lady a fan.