“The wilderness and the solitary place shall be glad for them; and the desert shall rejoice, and blossom as the rose” (Isa. 35:1).
Supported by one elbow, tired and weak,
Signs of sickness written on his face;
Gazing on the valley, he tried to speak,
And with much effort said, “This is the place.”
With unbelieving eyes the Saints looked down
And thought of far-off, beautiful Nauvoo.
The picture of their pleasant, thriving town
Was far beyond compare with this sad view.
Surely Zion cannot be built here!
They looked once more, their eyes filled with despair.
“His words are born in fever,” said one near.
“He sees a land that is not really there.”
He spoke more close to truth than they could see;
For Brigham had a vision he held dear
Of a land not there but soon to be;
Yes, for a season Zion would dwell here.
Frost at Midnight
Therefore all seasons shall be sweet to thee,
Whether the summer clothe the general earth
With greenness, or the redbreast sit and sing
Betwixt the tufts of snow on the bare branch.