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Hilda Conkling


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


The brook is his only friend

When he travels . . .

Silverhorn, Silverhorn!