The Mountain

We are bound in with vague fold upon fold
Of mists that wrap our world. We have no skies.
You can not measure here as the bird flies,
There is no outlet where the fog has rolled
Its greyness over us; till, as day grows old
Stirrings of wind wake hope, before light dies,
Of the low grey lifting; then, to raptured eyes,
A mountain peak stands forth in the late sun's gold.
Beyond the mists that shorten life's due vision—
Shadows that mask and blur reality,
Where frustrate sense treads hopeless in the maze—
There are those fields that dreamers named Elysian,
Eternity saints charted like a sea,
And God, when time is done, the Ancient of Days.
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