By Jessie Belle Rittenhouse

I came to the mountains for beauty,
And I find here the toiling folk,
On sparse little farms in the valleys,
Wearing their days like a yoke.
White clouds fill the valleys at morning;
They are round like great billows at sea,
And roll themselves up to the hill-tops,
Still round as great billows can be.
The mists fill the valleys at evening;
They are blue as the smoke in the fall,
And spread all the hills with a tenuous scarf
That touches the hills not at all.
These lone folk have looked on them daily.
Yet I see in their faces no light;
Oh, how can I show them the mountains
That are round them by day and by night!

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