Behold
He stares straight through me
From the shining snowy peak
He says not; nor do I
As if I were the passer-by
I see him twitch
Nervous, nervous, I start to itch
He so dangerous stands majestically
I stand shaking uncontrollably
His eyes drip like gold
Visual wisdom as though he's old
I compare not close enough
I barely breathe but to puff
Then he moves on
His light so bright had shone
Though to him I meant not
As so much better he hast caught
But, Oh, Sir Wolf I thank thee
For even appearing just to me
You, not beheld by much others
Nature is now too my mother.
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