Page:The college beautiful, and other poems.djvu/26

14 O the land of granite and ice, In the month of frost and snow, A strain of music from Paradise Came seeking a home below. It entered a child's white heart, And the little human tent Grew to a shrine for its guest divine, — The poem the gods had sent. Now the rocky hills are crossed By snatches of happy tune. The month of darkness and frost We honor above the June. For thou, O poet we love, Art the bloom of our northern clime, And we know that song, through the ages long, Is the sweetest fruit of time.

LAS, our harp of harps ! the instrument On whose fine strings the nymph Parnassus-bred