Page:Thirty poems (IA thirtypoems00bryarich).pdf/207

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THE LITTLE PEOPLE OF THE SNOW.
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As fades the crimson from a morning cloud,Till they were white as marble, and the breathHad ceased to come and go, yet knew she notAt first that this was death. But when she markedHow deep the paleness was, how motionlessThat once lithe form, a fear came over her.She strove to wake the sleeper, plucked her robe,And shouted in her car, but all in vain;The life had passed away from those young limbs.Then the snow-maiden raised a wailing cry,Such as the dweller in some lonely wild,Sleepless through all the long December night,Hears when the mouruful East begins to blow. But suddenly was heard the sound of steps,Grating on the crisp snow; the cottagersWere seeking Eva; from afar they sawThe twain, and hurried toward them. As they came,
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