NINTH OPAL

In the mountains of Mexico,

Where the barren volcanoes throw

Their fierce peaks high to the sky,

With the strength of a tawny brute

That sees heaven but to defy,

And the soft, white hand of the snow

Touches and makes them mute,—

Firm in the clasp of the ground

The opal is found.

By the struggle of frost and fire

Created, yet caught in a spell

From which only human desire

Can free it, what passion profound

In its dim, sweet bosom may dwell!

So was it with us, I think,

Whose souls were formed on the brink

Of a crater, where rain and flame

Had mingled and crystallized.

One venturous day Love came;

Found us; and bound with a link

Of gold the jewels he prized.

The agonies old of the earth,

Its plenitude and its dearth,

The torrents of flame and of tears,

All these in our souls were inborn.

And we must endure through the years

The glory and burden of birth

That filled us with fire of the morn.

Let the diamond lie in its mine;

Let ruby and topaz shine;

The beryl sleep, and the emerald keep

Its sunned-leaf green! We know

The joy of sufferings deep

That blend with a love divine,

And the hidden warmth of the snow!