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.

⁠Betwixt your home and mine,
Oh, love, there is a graveyard lying;
⁠And every time you came,
Your steps were o'er the dead, and from the dying!

⁠Your face was dark and sad, —
Your eyes had shadows in their very laughter,
⁠Yet their glances made me glad,
And shut my own to what was coming after.

⁠Your voice had deeper chords
Than the Æolian harp when night-winds blow;
⁠The melancholy music of your words
None but myself may know.

⁠And, oh, you won my heart
By vows unbreathed — by words of love unspoken;
⁠So that, as now we part,
You have no blame to bear, and yet — 'tis broken!

How shall I bear this blow, how best resent it?
⁠Ah, love, you have not left me even my pride!
Nor strength to put aside, nor to repent it
⁠'Twere better I had died!

You came beneath my tent with friendly greeting;
⁠Of all my joys you had the better part;
Then when our eyes and hands were oftenest meeting,
⁠You struck me to the heart!

No less a murderer, that your victim, living,
⁠Can face the passing world, and jest and smile!
No less a traitor, for your show of giving
⁠Your friendship all the while

Well, let it pass! The city churchyard lying
⁠Betwixt our homes is but a type and sign
Of the waste in your heart, and of the eternal dying
⁠Of all sweet hopes in mine!