Hagen Walder

The day with a cold, dead color Was rising over the hill, When little Hagen Walder Went out to grind in th’ mill.

All vainly the light in zigzags Fell through the frozen leaves, And like a broidery of gold Shone on his ragged sleeves.

No mother had he to brighten His cheek with a kiss, and say, “’Tis cold for my little Hagen To grind in the mill to-day.”

And that was why the north-winds Seemed all in his path to meet, And why the stones were so cruel And sharp beneath his feet.

And that was why he hid his face So oft, despite his will, Against the necks of the oxen That turned the wheel in th’ mill.

And that was why the tear-drops So oft did fall and stand Upon their silken coats that were As white as a lady’s hand.

So little Hagen Walder Looked at the sea and th’ sky, And wished that he were a salmon In the silver waves to lie;

And wished that he were an eagle, Away through th’ air to soar, Where never the groaning mill-wheel Might vex him any more;

And wished that he were a pirate, To burn some cottage down, And warm himself; or that he were A market-lad in the town,

With bowls of bright, red strawberries Shining on his stall, And that some gentle maiden Would come and buy them all.

So little Hagen Walder Passed, as the story says, Through dreams, as through a golden gate, Into realities.

And when the years changed places, Like the billows, bright and still, In th’ ocean, Hagen Walder Was the master of the mill.

And all his bowls of strawberries Were not so fine a show As are his boys and girls at church, Sitting in a row.