THE SPELL OF COLD

Ah! What unearthly music plays so still So hushed, about the window sill, Aërial more than an æolian harp, Or with chromatic risings sharp Whistles the heart away into the ice-cold moon? It fluted through the dawn wind; soon The snow’s white, woven dance will come And close the little room In soft-fluffed, crystal silence, with the trees. Still, still in silvery cadencèd degrees The heavenly gradual Will rise and fall. Ah! what god in the forest plays One instant that makes all our days, And sends great music so about a little room? We would have quiet now in all our ways, And with the winter night, quiet and candlelight ... Ah! what unearthly music plays!

Haunted! Not here nor there, Nor from the forest hollows bare, Nor shining-particled, chill air, Nor star hung, and swan-breasted hill, But closer, closer still, Weaving between the nerve and bone The melody flows on. We would have quiet in the winter grays, And for the winter gloom, embers and a quiet room ... Ah! what unearthly music plays? Spell-bound! Not coolly rippling ivory. Nor cithers slowly sighing a nocturne, Nor mournful clarion of silver horn, Nor bells at midnight, hollowly forlorn, Could swell this tide of sound, nor turn This tide away from one who hears This music in between the ears And brain, from one who sees

Too long, the snow’s slow woven dance of imageries. No, nor the thousand forest Seraphs of the violin Shiver and clamour up, and cry, “Give over and give in!” So wildly! Hush! This is the spell the winter weaves; The song for which the tree sheds all its leaves, The high, chaste comfort for which worlds grow old. This is the glamour of the frost and cold Heard by the stars. It is the breath And premonition of the requiem of death Higher and colder than all. The frost crystal rays, And ice in the moon sing, when this unearthly music plays.