The Daughter Of The Snow

Though the panther’s footprints show, And the wild-cat’s, in the snow, You will never find a trace Of the footsteps of a certain Maiden with a paler face Than the drifts that fill and curtain Hillside, valley, and the wood, Where the hunter’s wigwam stood In the winter solitude.

What white beast hath grown the fur For the whiter limbs of her?-- Raiment of the frost and ice To her supple beauty fitting; Wampum strouds, as white as rice, Of the frost’s fantastic knitting, Wrap her form and face complete; Glove her hands with ice; her feet Moccasin with beaded sleet.

’Though he knew she made a haunt Of the dell, it did not daunt: Where the hoar-frost mailed each tree In soft, phantom alabaster, And hung ghosts of bud and bee On each autumn-withered aster; By the frozen waterfall, There she stood, beneath its wall, In the ice-sheathed chaparral.

Where the beech-tree and the larch Built a white triumphal arch For the Winter, marching down With his icy-armored leaders; Where each hemlock had a crown, And pale diadems the cedars; Where the long icicle shone, There he saw her, standing lone, Like a mist-wraith turned to stone.

And she led him many a mile With her hand-wave and her smile, And the printless swiftness of Feet of frost, and snowy flutter Of her raiment; now above, Now below, the boughs of utter Winter whiteness. Led him on Till the dawn and day were gone, And the evening star hung wan....

Hunters found him dead, they tell, In the winter-wasted dell, With his quiver and his bow, Where the cascade ran a rafter, White, of crystal and of snow; Where he listened to her laughter, Promises, that were as far As the secrets of a star, And her love that naught could mar.

And her countenance is this Stamped on his: and this her kiss, Haunting still his mouth and eyes, Colder than the cold December: This her passion, that defies All control, the stars remember Filled him, killed him: this is she Clinging to him, neck and knee, Where his limbs sank wearily.