Icicles

This fragile witchery of frost,

This stillness in the steely sky

So strange, so cold, to us, the lost,

How seems it to the King on high?

Is He too frozen in His dream?

So chilly seems the violet hill,

So white the fields without a gleam

Where writhes the iron-coloured rill,

So icy frigid is the day,

It might be all the thought of one

Who had long lost the heavenly way

That leads unto the central sun.