The snow-clad isles of ice
Launched by wild Boreas from a northern shore
Journey the way my eyes
Turn with an envious longing evermore,
Smiling back to the sky
Its own pink blush, and, floating out of sight,
Bear south the softest dye
Of northern heavens to fade in southern night—
My eyes but look the way my joys are gone,
And the ice islands travel not alone.
The untrod fields of snow
Glow with the rosy dye of parting day,
And fancy asks if so
The snow is stained with sunset far away,
And if some face, like mine,
Its forehead pressed against the window pane,
Peers northward with the shine
Of the pole star reflected in eyes' rain;
"Ah yes," my heart says, "it is surely so,"
And like a bound bird flutters hard to go.
Port Huron, Mich., 1852.
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