A day of sunshine in a land of snow,
And a soft-curtained room, where ruddy flakes
Of fame fall free, in liquid light that slakes
The soft desire of one cold, paleface: lo,

Close-pressed sweet lips, and eyes of violet,
That are filled up as with a sudden fear—
A storm’s prelude upon the expectant mere.
Yet deep behind what never they forget,

Who ever see in life’s chance or mischance.
And he who saw, what could he do but say,
“Fold up the tents; the camp is struck; away!

Vain victor who rides not in rest his lance!”
Beside the hearthstone where the flame-flakes fell,
There lay the cold keys of the citadel.