And there, deep-hidden under the snow,
Is buried the wealth of the long-ago--
Pearls and diamonds, veins of gold,
Priceless treasures of worth untold,
Harps of wonderful sweetness stilled
While yet the air was with music filled,--
Hands that stirred the resounding string
To melodies such as the angels sing,--
Faces radiant with smile and tear
That bent enraptured the strains to hear,--
And high, calm foreheads, and earnest eyes
That came and went beneath sunset skies.
There they are lying under the snow,
And the winds moan over them sad and low.
Pale, still faces that smile no more,
Calm, dosed eyelids whose light is o'er,
Silent lips that will never again,
Move to music's entrancing strain,
White hands folded o'er marble breasts,
Each under the mantling snow-drift rests;
And the wind their requiem sounds o'er and o'er,
In the oft-repeated "no more--_no more_"
"No more--no more!" I shall ever hear
That funeral dirge in its meanings drear,
But I may not linger with faltering tread
Anear my treasures--anear my dead.
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