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The Old Man on The Mountain

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Our special symbol,
Our precious sight,
Has fallen in the night.
What happened to his face?
For now it looks, as it would,
if someone has struck him with a mace.
Below in the wood,
The White Birch wilts.
For now Old Man is gone,
and he cannot look upon
the trees below.
The Purple Finch
who was his friend,
flies past and round the bend.
He does not stop to say hello,
for who would answer,
but for his echo?





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