Ellen Sturgis Hooper (1812–1848)

DRY lighted soul, the ray that shines in thee,

Shot without reflex from primeval sun,

We twine the laurel for the victories

Which thou on thought’s broad, bloodless field hast won.

Thou art the mountain where we climb to see

The land our feet have trod this many a year.

Thou art the deep and crystal winter sky,

Where noiseless, one by one, bright stars appear.

It may be Bacchus, at thy birth, forgot

That drop from out the purple grape to press

Which is his gift to man, and so thy blood

Doth miss the heat which ofttimes breeds excess.

But, all more surely do we turn to thee

When the day’s heat and blinding dust are o’er,

And cool our souls in thy refreshing air,

And find the peace which we had lost before.