The Atlantic Monthly/Volume 2/Number 7/The Skater

 

The Skater.

 

The skater lightly laughs and glides,
Unknowing that beneath the ice
Whereon he carves his fair device
A stiffened corpse in silence slides.

It glareth upward at his play;
Its cold, blue, rigid fingers steal
Beneath the trendings of his heel;
It floats along and floats away.

He has not seen its horror pass;
His heart is blithe; the village hears
His distant laughter; he careers
In festive waltz athwart the glass.—

We are the skaters, we who skim
The surface of Life's solemn flood,
And drive, with gladness in our blood,
A daring dance from brim to brim.

Our feet are swift, our faces burn,
Our hopes aspire like soaring birds;
The world takes courage from our words,
And sees the golden time return.

But ever near us, silent, cold,
Float those who bounded from the bank
With eager hearts, like us, and sank
Because their feet were overbold.

They sank through breathing-holes of vice,
Through treacherous sheens of unbelief;
They know not their despair and grief:
Their hearts and minds are turned to ice.