Mountain Homes

The sun has parted, gone goodbye;
The light it leaves now wanes and fails.
The traffic hushes, thins to die,
And faint, so faint, a baby wails.

Along the mountains sparks of gold
Do tell of homes serene and sure;
Each little dot has steady hold
On what each owner’s working for.

Alone and separate, calm and dear,
His lookout point on ridges high,
He sees the world out-spreading clear—
His place beneath the starry sky.

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