Poetry Archives

It is out in the mountains
I find him,
My snowy deer
With silver horns like dew,
Horns that sparkle.
I think I see him in the hollow,
He is on the high hill!
I think I see him on the hill,
He is leaping through the air!
I think I can ride upon his back,
He is like moonlight I cannot hold,
He is like thoughts I lose.
He flows by
All white . . .
He makes me think of the brook
Out of the hills
With its little foamy points
Like his twitching ears,
Like his horns of silver
Sparkling.

The brook is his only friend
When he travels . . .
Silverhorn, Silverhorn!