Fairer than ever grew in fairy tale,
Transmuted into plenteous field and glade
By the slow magic of the white man's spade,
Grows Deseret, filling its mighty nest
Between the eastern mountains and the west,
While—who goes there? What shape antique
looks down
From this green mound upon the festive town,
With tall majestic figure darkly set
Against the sky in dusky silhouette?