They say of a thinker's bold sallies,
He goes where the ice will not bear;
I was beckoned to false hollow valleys,
By snow maids, seductive and fair.
Thus driven by furious fancies,
I went down the hill with a shout;
But atoned for my youthful romances
By a thousand years rolling about.
Cried the Glacier, his teeth sharply showing,
Here, my blade, you'll be polished right well,