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 blush 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: