A DEPLORATION.
We do often think ourselves not worth.—Anonymous.
Cold is the night, and my heart is cold,
Bleak as yon peak of the rockies old;
Chill like the hill
At the mountain’s foot,
Still as the rill
That lies frozen and mute.
White is the mountain-top, gleaming with snow,
Cov’ring the rocks and the mould below:
So seems the snow
That my heart doth enfold,
Tho’ down below
Lie the rocks and the mould.
Deep in the hill neath the binding cold
Never yet found may be veins of gold.
And of the sand
And the quartz in my heart
Hand has not panned,
Maybe gold is a part.
Oh ’neath the crystal and ice-bound stream
Drifts every gleam of a gold-digger’s dream;
So neath the floe
Of my heart’s frozen stream
Slowly I know
Drifts the gold of love’s dream.