The wondering air grows mute,
        As her pearly parachute
Cometh slowly down from heaven, softly floating to and fro;
        And the earth emits no sound,
        As lightly on the ground
Leaps the silvery-footed Spirit of the Snow.

        At the contact of her tread,
        The mountain’s festal head,
As with chaplets of white roses, seems to glow;
        And its furrowed cheek grows white
        With a feeling of delight,
At the presence of the Spirit of the Snow.

        As she wendeth to the vale,
        The longing fields grow pale—­
The tiny streams that vein them cease to flow;
        And the river stays its tide
        With wonder and with pride,
To gaze upon the Spirit of the Snow.

        But little doth she deem
        The love of field or stream—­
She is frolicsome and lightsome as the roe;
        She is here and she is there,
        On the earth or in the air,
Ever changing, floats the Spirit of the Snow.

        Now a daring climber, she
        Mounts the tallest forest tree—­
Out along the giddy branches doth she go;
        And her tassels, silver-white,
        Down swinging through the night,
Mark the pillow of the Spirit of the Snow.

        Now she climbs the mighty mast,
        When the sailor boy at last
Dreams of home in his hammock down below
        There she watches in his stead
        Till the morning sun shines red,
Then evanishes the Spirit of the Snow.

        Or crowning with white fire. 
        The minster’s topmost spire
With a glory such as sainted foreheads show;
        She teaches fanes are given
        Thus to lift the heart to heaven,
There to melt like the Spirit of the Snow.

        Now above the loaded wain,
        Now beneath the thundering train,
Doth she hear the sweet bells tinkle and the snorting engine blow;
        Now she flutters on the breeze,
        Till the branches of the trees
Catch the tossed and tangled tresses of the Spirit of the Snow.

        Now an infant’s balmy breath
        Gives the spirit seeming death,
When adown her pallid features fair Decay’s damp dew-drops flow;
        Now again her strong assault
        Can make an army halt,
And trench itself in terror ’gainst the Spirit of the Snow.

        At times with gentle power,
        In visiting some bower,
She scarce will hide the holly’s red, the blackness of the sloe;
        But, ah! her awful might,
        When down some Alpine height
The hapless hamlet sinks before the Spirit of the Snow.

        On a feather she floats down
        The turbid rivers brown,
Down to meet the drifting navies of the winter-freighted floe;
        Then swift o’er the azure walls
        Of the awful waterfalls,
Where Niagara leaps roaring, glides the Spirit of the Snow.