Slow Toiling Upward From' The Misty Vale, I Leave The Bright Enamelled Zones Below; No More For Me Their Beauteous Bloom Shall Glow, Their Lingering Sweetness Load The Morning Gale; Few Are The Slender Flowerets, Scentless, Pale, That On Their Ice-Clad Stems All Trembling Blow Along The Margin Of Unmelting Snow; Yet With Unsaddened Voice Thy Verge I Hail, White Realm Of Peace Above The Flowering Line; Welcome Thy Frozen Domes, Thy Rocky Spires! O'Er Thee Undimmed The Moon-Girt Planets Shine, On Thy Majestic Altars Fade The Fires That Filled The Air With Smoke Of Vain Desires, And All The Unclouded Blue Of Heaven Is Thine! 1870.