Deep within a narrow valley, lies a busy little town,
While set as for its coronet, each mountain bears a chapel crown.
Every tongue on earth that's spoken, in that Babel mingled go,
Those whose characters are broken, those whose lives are white as snow.
Some for pleasure, some for play, ever marching to and fro, —
Sick and well and grave and gay, — up and down the crowd doth flow.
Through the valley runs a river, bright and rocky, cool and swift,
Where the wave with many a quiver, plays around the pine-tree's drift.
But within the town the streamlet forms a clear and shallow pool,
Each detail reflected clearly, down amidst its shadows cool.
All the men, and all the houses, — all the hanging flower-pots,
Booths and bonnets, beards and blouses, and the Baroness de Kotz.
And the grey cliffs overhanging, and the grim and solemn pines,
Whose forests with ,their mighty shadows, close us in with dark green lines.
All, — except the cross which towers, high aloft into the sky,
Alone upon that mountain summit, as its Master here did die.
For the mirror was too narrow, and could not the whole contain,
So it took the lower portion, left out what o'er all should reign.
And methought our living mirrors, in that busy little town,
Gave back all that eager bustle, to and fro, and up and down.
Faithfully we there reflected, all the chatter, all the noise,
All the talk on one another, — all the flowers, all the toys.
Only we left out the presence, and forgot the thought of Him
Whose calm and holy memory, in our hearts should ne'er grow dim.
Like an old Italian picture — where the men and women sit,
Unconscious of the glorious vision, which above their heads doth flit.
So the upper, better portion of our picture heeding not,
Broken, selfish, narrow, trivial — life becomes in that sweet spot.
