On the crags of a far-off mountain-top
At earliest dawn a snowflake fell;
The North Wind stooped and cried to her, “Stop!
There is room in my icy halls to dwell!”
The snowflake gleamed like a crystal clear,
Then wept herself to a single tear,
Paused, trembled, and slowly began to glide
Adown the slopes of the mountain-side.
Desolate ledges, frost-riven and bare,
A tiny rivulet bore on their breast;
Cloud-gray mosses and lichens fair
Mutely besought her to slumber and rest.
The rivulet shone in the morning sun,
And touching them tenderly, one by one,
With dewy lips, like the mountain mist,
Each waiting face as she passed she kissed.
Among the shadows of pine and fir
A stream danced merrily on her way;
A thrush from his hermitage sang to her:
“Why dost thou haste? Sweet messenger, stay!”
The noontide shadows were cool and deep,
The pathway stony, the hillside steep,
The bird still chanted with all his art—
But the stream ran on, with his song in her heart.
Through broadening meadow and corn-land bright,
Past smoke-palled city and flowery lea,
A river rolled on, in the fading light,
Majestic, serene, as she neared the sea.
The sins and uncleanness of many she bore
To the outstretched arms of the waiting shore,
Till moonlight followed the sunset glow
And her crimson waves were as white as snow.
On the lonely ledges of Appledore
I listen again to the ocean’s song,
And lo! in its music I hear once more
The North Wind’s clarion, loud and long.
In that solemn refrain that never shall end
The murmurs of swaying fir-trees blend,
The brooklet’s merry ripple and rush,
The evening hymn of the hermit thrush,
The undertone of the mountain pine,—
The deep sweet voice of a love divine.