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Themes and Variations
But winter, hiding just within the end,
Flung o’er the ship a cobweb light and fine,—
Saying ‘Stay—for I fain would talk with thee, my friend!
Sit in my house, and drink mine ancient wine!’
And fast ensnared within that frosty net,
Nine months they wearied of the sleeted sky;
Till July, with her raiment dripping wet,
Stole the white key, and signed to them to fly.
So out they slipped, and passed the Arctic gates,
First western wayfarers through Behring’s Straits.
Flung o’er the ship a cobweb light and fine,—
Saying ‘Stay—for I fain would talk with thee, my friend!
Sit in my house, and drink mine ancient wine!’
And fast ensnared within that frosty net,
Nine months they wearied of the sleeted sky;
Till July, with her raiment dripping wet,
Stole the white key, and signed to them to fly.
So out they slipped, and passed the Arctic gates,
First western wayfarers through Behring’s Straits.