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And my feats are ever so silently done
They're all unguessed, till the morning sun
Ruddy and round, 'mid vapours tost
Looks on a kingdom of white hoar-frost.
These are my sports—and oft I fling
A glassy floor from rim to rim
Of the lake that shines i' the valley low;
And then—how merrily, swiftly go
The skaiters along!—They dart—they skim—
Or circle in many a mazy ring;
Oh! these are the sports of the cold Ice-king.
And what hast thou to show,
In thy russet bower and leavy pall,
Can match with my boundless and glittering Hall?"
Queen of the sober shroud,
Haste thee away—begone—
For the Ice-king hurryeth on:
He travels along on a swift black cloud;
The strong winds his coursers are;
He travels along—and their roar so loud
Before him rolls afar—
He comes—and the leafless woods bend down
Before the King of the Icy crown.
He comes in terror, and wrath, and dread;
Around him the storm and the blast outspread
Their awful wings—and the darken'd sky
