Dull, yellow, heavy, lustreless—
With less of radiance than the burnished tress,
Crumpled on Beauty's forehead: cloddish, cold,
Kneaded together with the common mold!
Worn by sharp contact with the fretted edges
Of ancient drifts, or prisoned in deep ledges;
Hidden within some mountain's rugged breast
From man's desire and quest—
Would thou could'st speak and tell the mystery
That shrines thy history!