And over the mountains bold,
Was a land whose rivers and darkening caves
Were gemmed with the rarest gold;
Then my first-born turned from the oaken door,
And I knew the shadows were only four.
"Another went forth on the foaming waves
And diminished the basket's store—
But his feet grew cold—so weary and cold—
They'll never be warm any more—
And this nook in its emptiness, seemeth to me