When it does coine, the few days of bit- 

 ter cold about the winter solstice, there is 

 Fairyland all down the creek. The lakes 

 skim over with clear, commonplace ice. In 

 the swift runs there is ice only along the 

 edges. But ice of such clear shining, such 

 wonderful shapes, as freezes nowhere else. 

 Each leaf is armored in lace of diamond, 

 each twig and grass-spear has its pendent 

 pearl, moss and lichen are transfigured, stone 

 and pebble made harmonies of frost. 



All the shelving bluffs, whence waters drip 

 so cool through summer days, are hung with 

 huge icicles, points of fluted pearl. They 

 grow upward as well as downward. If the 

 frost holds a week they meet in hour-glass 

 fashion, and stand white ghosts of fair water 

 that only the south wind can make again 

 alive. 



He is not slow in rescue. He comes at 

 night, with a roar and rush of rain. In a day 

 the ice is broken up, and a turbid torrent, 

 full of drift and silt, goes racing to the river 

 valley, to rest at last in the sea. 



