A Poem for You: The Mountains, by D’Arcy McNickle


The Mountains D’Arcy McNickle There is snow, now— A thing of silent creeping— And day is strange half-night . . . And the mountains have gone, softly murmuring something . . . And I remember pale days,  Pale as the half-night . . . and as strange and sad. I remember times in this room When but to glance thru an opened window Was to be filled with an ageless crying wonder: The grand slope of the meadows, The green rising of the hills, And then far-away slumbering mountains— Dark, fearful, old— Older than old, rusted, crumbling rock, Those mountains . . . But sometimes came a strange thing And [...]