Flaxen Weed

In a sudden soundless sigh
the mountain breathed me
through a mystic fountain.
It sounded a song of the deepest blue
that darkened to a sullen hue.
Tasting, probing the wary air, knowing

with a whispering surety of craving
foaming blue skies
and that shiny, perilous prize...
that sphere of gold.
Oh, it had such a hold
of my hand and eye; then did I stand

once more on the peak. I live
therefore I speak.
My fistful of gold looked withered
and old-just a dull flaxen weed
but it had stopped my fall,

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