Classic Poem

Ha! the sharp air,
Snowbell, Snowbell!
" Where? " with a little sob, she cries; " come
All the long dream through here,
Into cold, clear, keen Ruggeddom? "

Up, up, alone,
Startled maid. Chariot gone —
Art afraid? But what fell
Over her elbow
On to the snow
Just now, as she propped herself from the ground
And looked round?

The mist, frozen tight,
Lying fair, smooth, and white
In the cold. Let it lie!
And, she gone, presently
Three passing by
Will hold on their way,
When " Surely, " shall one say,
" Some God,
Building up there a world in the immense air,
Carelessly out of his hod
Let fall this sweet small stone. "
And one —
" 'Tis but a frozen flower! "
And one —
" Yea, give it me, be this pearl my life's dower. "

So wistfully uprist, see,
Through the chill, sweet air, wide wanders her sweet will,
All lovingly the still,
Cold daylight taking
To that pure bosom at her lone awaking.

Which way shall her feet range?
East, west, or south, or north,
Who bids her forth?

Fair face prest slantways 'gainst the tremulous air,
Heart's flutter hushed — what listeth she?
By white beams kist,
Over the long, low sweep of the snow?
Bells ringing merrily.

Ringing, ringing, ringing high
In the air with soft, wild joy,
To the arch of the sky;
Ringing tenderly down to the earth,
Yet silver-sweet, not wholly
Hushed with alloy;
Ringing crisply, sounding slowly,
Touching rim of melancholy
With the lip of mirth.

" Golden green, or changing white,
Crimsoning wine, chrysolite;
Blue of ocean, blue of fire,
Jasper, jacinth, sapphire,
Beryl, opal, chrysopras;
All emerald has
Come and pass;
Golden gold and glowing eyes,
Rest of meadows, depth of skies;
Changing water,
Wine of love, of woe, of laughter.
Chrysopras, golden green,
April leaflets sun between;
June coppice, frozen breath,
Is it sleep, or is it death?
Mimic rainbow, bleeding day,
Purple midnight, step of fay.
Over the mountains, brothers bold,
Beryl, chrysopras, moonlight cold. "

Ringing, rippling over the plain,
Seven brother-dwarf-chimes, faltering, fain,
Dim towards the mountains, merrily, high,
Over the mountain-tops, hushed in the sky.
Over the mountains, where seven dwarfs dwell,
Come through the silver chimes, pretty Snowbell,
To the rock side of Ruggeddom well —

Up the jagged steps
To the snowed-ledge out from the grey,
With the stunt wide house on it, lo!
And the door ajar, brushing the snow.
Climbing up, creeping close, peering in, is she?
Is the fairy house empty?
Then come in,
One little foot in the doorway,
Over the threshold!
Be bold, ah! be hold, Snowbell! One, two!
The whimsical elf things can't hurt you.
Frisky, tricksy, elfish things!
A minute ago
They were all pranking, I know
Look at the gnarled chair,
Standing a-cock there!
And the little kettle up in the air,
Hiding its wings, stops its hissings.
Seven quilts on the seven low beds,
Flopping up and down,
Twisting, turning over,
Making believe to cover
Their seven little brown
Master-dwarfs' heads
Pot on the fire dripping —
See the rich gravy!
Fire-irons skipping;
Now all, craftily, as they are able,
Drawing close to fit places,
With a sort of hush
And surprise on their no-faces,
So to wipe out all traces
Of pleasantry,
Noiselessly,
If possible.

Till with a general sigh,
Inaudible, and a shy
Flutter of love unseen,
Their almost-hearts and no-hearts between,
For Snowbell, the natural fairies' queen.
Lo! each in silence stayed
Before her, fairest maid.

She just within,
Feet drawn together,
Wide eyes wondering;
Little chin
Lifted awry,
Suddenly
Wondering why she is wondering.
All is so simple and still,
Lying fair opened wide to her will —
The dwarfs' home, they gone,
And the long day before her to live there alone.

Seven stools there are, curled, malapert;
Each one touches she
With one finger carefully.
Do they hurt her? or why
Turns she timidly now, brushing by
Towards the chair
That stands empty, arms wide, all astare,
Resting there for an instant,
Still birdlike, now here, and now there,
With no content anywhere?

Until every one of these elfish things she has fingered,
Knows too
Down into the very heart of each what it is meant to do;
Understands, inly fluttering,
What the little sprites are muttering
Inside the very molecules of the wood,
Or the iron, or the tin,
They are shut in
Sees the forms unseen,
Knows them all through and through,
For evil and for good,
Snowbell, the Elves'-queen.
Who, rearing her slim form up high
Presently, and lifting a little white finger,
" O all you whimsical
Furniture of the dwarfs' home,
I'm a white summer ray, come
To winter in Ruggeddom!
Will ye learn from me
To be graceful, and sweet, and orderly? "
Sayeth she.

And hark! from the room
What sounds come, mixed in one,
Sweet and heavy,
Wavering and strong,
Like the hum of a honey-bee,
Wandering along
From feast and from sip,
At the tip of content i' the hot sun!
One and many, many and one,
All the little elf things together
Murmuring in answer to her.

Ready to act daintily,
To be sweet and serviceable.
Lo! with motion swift or slow,
Moving gently to and fro,
Always at her notion.
Now, all being orderly, Snowbell,
Sitting in a nook of the room,
Looks out in the face of that quaint elf place,
Wondering how soon its dwarf masters will come
To sleep above ground, in their fay home;
How they will look, and what they will say,
Finding her there,
Speaking her rough, or speaking her fair.

Pondering, and anon
Singing little snatches of song
As the day wears along.
Now, peering in wonder
The low door under,
At the sunflushes over the snow;
As daylight slants low,
As daylight grows grey,
As the last glimmer blinks in the eyes of the day,
As the shadows all,
Great and small,
Fold themselves up and hide away behind the bushes.