ILLUSTRATED BY A. L. BOWLEY.
| O'er glassy levels of the mere She glides on slanting skate; She loves in fairy curves to veer And weave her figure eight. Bright flower in fur, I would thy feet Could weave my heart and thine, my sweet, Thus into one glad life complete! Harsh winter, rage thy rudest: Freeze, freeze, thou churlish sky; Blow, arctic wind, thy shrewdest— What care my heart and I! |