Now the ice lays its smooth claws on the sill,
The sun looks from the
Helmed in his winter casket,
And sweeps his arctic sword across the sky.
The water at the
Sounds more hoarse and dull.
The miller's daughter walking
With frozen fingers soldered to her
Seems to be knocking Upon a hundred leagues of
With her light heels, and
Percy and Douglas dead,
And Bruce on his burial bed,
Where he lies white as
With wars and leprosy,
And all the kings
This land was kingless,
And all the singers
This land was songless,
This land that with its dead and living waits the Judgement Day.
But they, the powerless dead,
Listening can hear no
Than a hard tapping on the floorA little
Of common heels that do not
Whence they come or where they
And are
With their poor frozen life and shallow banishment.
