O ye who dwell beneath the temperate sun,
And till the happy fields of every day,
Know ye what lands are lying far away,
Where never birds rejoice, nor waters run,
But all the seasons wear the robes of one, —
Too white, too fair for aught but death's array?
Know ye that human hearts like yours are there,
That human life breathes in that icy air?
Great dawns are there, of stainless pearl and rose, —
There the white splendors of still greater nights
Stream up the sky. But heavenly lights are cold!
And the earth moans under her weight of snows,
Keeping a thousand uses and delights
Hid in her breast, that never may unfold.
