Lo, there you walk ‘pon virgin snow
oh silver-footed spectre.
Pale as winter’s hoary veil,
thy hair a grain-gold wave.
Upon thy feet, as so nimble you wend,
flakes of snow frolic as if young and at play.
Thy legs well carry, with gait so swift,
you ‘cross the wintery plain.
Aurora as thy blanket, you slumber
‘pon a bed of frost, a pillow of snow.
The ivory slope of thy breast seems one
of the white-gleaming winter-dunes that bedeck the tundra.
When wakest thou, by morning’s blaze
thy fiery eyes alight
upon some distant vista veiled in white
and full on you make your swift pace once more.
Oh maiden-goddess of winter’s rain,
I linger frozen-hearted in thine awesome wake,
a’feared yet compelled to join thy footsteps,
to follow where e’er you wonder.
But mortal man may no goddess caress
nor abreast with her make his journey.
My eyes burn hot as the flame does fade,
that golden-haired fire dwindles.
Upon the horizon shall I always recall,
the beauteous maiden of ice,
as glimmering brightly she disappeared,
and the winter died unto the spring.