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Ella Wheeler Wilcox - My Comrade
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Out from my window westward 
     I turn full oft my face; 
But the mountains rebuke the vision 
     That would encompass space; 
They lift their lofty foreheads 
     To the kiss of the clouds above, 
And ask, "With all our glory, 
Can we not win your love?"

I answer, "No, oh mountains! 
     I see that you are grand; 
But you have not the breadth and beauty 
     Of the fields in my own land; 
You narrow my range of vision 
     And you even shut from me 
The voice of my old comrade, 
     The West Wind wild and free."

But to-day I climbed the mountains 
     On the back of a snow-white steed, 
And the West Wind came to greet me— 
     He flew on the wings of speed. 
His charger, and mine that bore me, 
     Went gaily neck to neck, 
Till the town in the valley below us 
     Looked like a small, dark speck.

And oh! what tales he whispered 
     As he rode there by me, 
Of friends whose smiling faces 
     I am so soon to see. 
And the mountains frowned in anger, 
     Because I balked their spite, 
And met my old-time comrade 
     There on their very height;

But I laughed up in their faces, 
     As I rode slowly back, 
While the Wind went faster and faster, 
     Like a race-horse on the track.
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