The Winter Night. 309 



On thy high, smooth brow, clear with the clearness of 

 ether, is no trace of compassion for the little sufferings 

 of despised humanity, on thy pale, beautiful cheek no 

 blush of feeling. Among thy raven locks, waving out 

 into space, the hoar-frost has sprinkled its glittering 

 crystals. The proud lines of thy throat, thy shoulders' 

 curves, are so noble, but, oh ! unbendingly cold ; thy 

 bosom's white chastity is feelingless as the snowy ice. 

 Chaste, beautiful, and proud, thou floatest through ether 

 over the frozen sea, thy glittering garment, woven of 

 aurora beams, covering the vault of heaven. But some- 

 times I divine a twitch of pain on thy lips, and endless 

 sadness dreams in thy dark eye. 



" Oh, how tired I am of thy cold beauty ! I long to 

 return to life. Let me get home again, as conqueror or 

 as beggar ; what does that matter ? But let me get 

 home to begin life anew. The years are passing here, 

 and what do they bring ? Nothing but dust, dry dust, 

 which the first wind blows away ; new dust comes in its 

 place, and the next wind takes it too. Truth ? Why 

 should we always make so much of truth ? Life is more 

 than cold truth, and we live but once. 



" Tuesday, December 26th. 36 F. below zero 

 ( 38 C.). This (the same as yesterday's) is the greatest 

 cold we have had yet. I went a long way north to-day ; 

 found a big lane covered with newly frozen ice, with a quite 

 open piece of water in the middle. The ice rocked up and 

 down under my steps, sending waves out into the open 



