The servant knew that his master spoke not at random. He carefully looked for the footsteps of the king. He set his own feet in the print of his master’s.
“In the master’s steps he trod,
Where the snow lay dinted;
Heat was in the very sod
Which the saint had printed.”
And so great was the fire of love that kindled in the heart of the king that, as the servant trod in his steps, he gained life and heat. Otto felt not the wind; he heeded not the frost; for the master’s footprints glowed as with holy fire and zealously he followed the king on his errand of mercy.
MIDWINTER
The speckled sky is dim with snow,
The light flakes falter and fall slow;
Athwart the hill-top, rapt and pale,
Silently drops a silvery veil;
And all the valley is shut in
By flickering curtains grey and thin.
But cheerily the chickadee
Singeth to me on fence and tree;
The snow sails round him as he sings,
White as the down of angels’ wings.
I watch the snowflakes as they fall
On bank and briar and broken wall;
Over the orchard, waste and brown,
All noiselessly they settle down,
Tipping the apple-boughs, and each
Light quivering twig of plum and peach.
On turf and curb and bower-roof
The snowstorm spreads its ivory woof;
It paves with pearl the garden walk;
And lovingly round tattered stalk
And shivering stem, its magic weaves
A mantle fair as lily-leaves.