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Andrew Benton

The Mountain-Top

I stood upon the summit, bare,
And cold, in garb of silenced ewe—
Listened for the wind which rang
Across the void, velvet and blue,
When angels laughed, and through the joy,
The stationed earth resigned, alone, to sigh;

No songs heard I but cries of men,
And bound in bonds of solitude, above
Their wars, their pittance gain,
I yearned for wisdom, soft and true,
To make a mite worth Heaven's song,
To give a weary man his due;

Among the stars I searched for years,
Till ice made home betwixt my tears,
And rooted in the dreams which once
Had led me on my way—
The blackness, then, which met my eye,
Beneath the alabaster sky,

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