He who profanes thy perilous threshold,—where The ancient centuries lair, And, glacier-throned, thy monarch, Winter, nods,— Let him beware! Lest, coming on that hoary presence there, Whose pitiless hand, Above that hungry land, An iceberg wields as sceptre, and whose crown The North Star is, set in a band of frost, He, too, shall feel the bitterness of that frown, And, turned to stone, forevermore be lost. Dionysia Dionysia The day is dead; and in the west The slender crescent of the moon— Diana's crystal-kindled crest— Sinks hillward in a silvery swoon. What is the murmur in the dell? The stealthy whisper and the drip?— A Dryad with her leaf-light trip?
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