“He thinks no more of his home afar,
Where his sire and sister wait;
He heeds no longer how star after star
Looks forth on the night, as the hour grows late.
He heeds not the snow-wreath, lifted and cast
From a thousand boughs, by the rising blast.
“His thoughts are alone of those who dwell
In the halls of frost and snow,
Who pass where the crystal domes upswell
From the alabaster floors below,