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The Vanishers.

sweetest of all childlike dreams
     In the simple Indian lore
Still to me the legend seems
     Of the shapes who flit before.

Flitting, passing, seen and gone,
     Never reached nor found at rest,
Baffling search, but beckoning on
     To the Sunset of the Blest.

From the clefts of mountain rocks,
     Through the dark of lowland firs,
Flash the eyes and flow the locks
     Of the mystic Vanishers!

And the fisher in his skiff,
     And the hunter on the moss,
Hear their call from cape and cliff,
     See their hands the birch-leaves toss.

Wistful, longing, through the green
     Twilight of the clustered pines,
In their faces rarely seen
     Beauty more than mortal shines.

Fringed with gold their mantles flow
     On the slopes of westering knolls;
In the wind they whisper low
     Of the Sunset Land of Souls.

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