Graven in many an austere phantasy.

But far away the Winter dreams alone,

Rustling among his snow-drifts, and resigns

Cold fondling ears to hear the cedars moan

In dusky-skirted lines

Strange answers of an ancient runic call;

Or somewhere watches with his antique eyes,

Gray-chill with frosty-lidded reveries,

The silvery moonshine fall

In misty wedges through his girth of pines.

Poor mortals haste and hide away: creep soon

Into your icy beds: the embers die;

And on your frosted panes the pallid moon

Is glimmering brokenly.

Mutter faint prayers that spring will come e'erwhile,

Scarring with thaws and dripping days and nights

The shining majesty of him that smites

And slays you with a smile

Upon his silvery lips, of glinting mockery.

[Pg 30]

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