 | Collected poems |  |
258
ICICLES
This fragile witchery of frost,
This stillness in the steely sky,
So strange, so cold, to us, the lost,
How seems it to the King on high?
This stillness in the steely sky,
So strange, so cold, to us, the lost,
How seems it to the King on high?
Is He too frozen in His dream?
So chilly seems the violet hill,
So white the fields without a gleam
Where writhes the iron-coloured rill,
So chilly seems the violet hill,
So white the fields without a gleam
Where writhes the iron-coloured rill,
So icy frigid is the day,
It might be all the thought of one
Who had long lost the heavenly way
That leads unto the central sun.
It might be all the thought of one
Who had long lost the heavenly way
That leads unto the central sun.
| Collected poems | |