 | Sonnets of the Wingless Hours |  |
18
AN ELFIN SKATE.
III.
On my wheeled bed, I let my fingers play
With a wee silver skate, scarce one inch long,
Which might have fitted one of Frost's Elf throng,
Or been his gift to one whose limbs are clay.
With a wee silver skate, scarce one inch long,
Which might have fitted one of Frost's Elf throng,
Or been his gift to one whose limbs are clay.
But Elfdom's dead; and what in my hand lay
Was out of an old desk, from years when, strong
And full of health, life sang me still its song;
A skating club's small badge, long stowed away.
Was out of an old desk, from years when, strong
And full of health, life sang me still its song;
A skating club's small badge, long stowed away.
Oh, there is nothing like the skater's art—
The poetry of circles; nothing like
The fleeting beauty of his crystal floor.
The poetry of circles; nothing like
The fleeting beauty of his crystal floor.
Above his head the winter sunbeams dart;
Beneath his feet flits fast the frightened pike.
Skate while you may; the morrow skates no more.
Beneath his feet flits fast the frightened pike.
Skate while you may; the morrow skates no more.
| Sonnets of the Wingless Hours | |