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their veils of clinging mist,
 * Elusive as a dream,

In changing rose and amethyst
 * The mountains stood supreme.

Consumed as by some inward fire
 * Of brooding mystery,

They held the heart of his desire—
 * His love and poetry.

And always, ever, some dear time—
 * So ran his hidden hopes—

He meant to leave his task and climb
 * Their beckoning emerald slopes.

To scale their precipices bold,
 * And watch the rose-wreaths rise,

To see the gates of Heaven unrolled
 * Before his longing eyes.