There yawns a cavernous abyss;
“Ice-church” they call’d the place of old;
And of it many a tale was told;
A frozen tarn has paved the floor;
Aloft, in massy-piled blocks,
The gather’d snow-drifts slope and soar
Arch-like over the yawning rocks.
Gerd.
It seems a mountain-cleft,—ah, yes,
It is a church, though, none the less.