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THE VALLEY OF ROCKS.
Groweth not one ancient tree
Here; the eye can only see
Broken mass of cold gray stone;
Never yet was place so lone!
Yet the heart hath many a mood
That would seek such solitude,
When the summer earth and sky
Mock those who but pine to die.
Wherefore should the flowers be bright,
When they yield us no delight?
What avails the gladsome spring!
Misery is a selfish thing;
And the wretched one would fain
That all nature shared his pain.
Then, the piled and riven rock,
Of earth's agony the sign,
And the lone and barren place,
Seem like sorrow's fitting shrine.
Gloomy vale! if thou couldst be
Haunt for human misery,
Half our life were spent with thee.
THE END.
