Slowly across the Great Divide;

The blinding storm turns day to night,

And clogs their feet; the snowflakes roll

The winding sheet about them; sight

Is darkened; faint the despairing soul.

No trail before or behind them. Spur

His horse? Nay, child, it were death to stir!

Motionless horse and rider stand,

Turning to stone; till one poor mule,

Pricking his ears as if to say