Not wildly crazed to tear her hair,
But mute and sad, as if despair
Had worn away life's tuneful strings,
And sealed to Thought its gushing springs.
But on that ring mute Alice Hill
For ever looks, as if a thrill
Of reason shot across her brain,
And darted gleams of mental pain.
Bold Winter lay on Moreland Vale.
His bearded crown of ice and hail,