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Katharine Lee Bates - MistKatharine Lee Bates - Mist
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ON the mountain side they fashion, Those rifting shreds of storm, A figure of strange passion, A winged and sworded form. Majestic, wild, colossal, With angry arm thrown high; Those swaying shoulders jostle The glory from the sky. Then flows the happy hour. That tyrant of the mist Turns to a wavering tower And melts in amethyst, Foretelling thus the cycle O speed it, Holy Dove!— When the Archangel Michael Shall vanish into Love.
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