Through halve of heaven, merry dancers grow,
The flaming raiment of the polar skies.
The Northern distance in the dusk milk dies,
The sea is frozen in the pliant bow.
All is created of the ice and snow,
The high crag rings. The wind over it flies
And builds to skies an altar of the ice,
Sings psalms and pleases self with a sad moan.
The easy shades run from the clouds white.
In dreams of dinner that is somewhere near,
Like the white piles, there lay many a bear.
Not dark, nor light. Not hour, nor day, nor night.
The jug, in skies, hangs like a yellow pear…
The high-horned deer looks up into the height.