A Little Norsk
Or
Ol' Paps' Flaxen

My cabin cowers in the pathless sweep

Of the terrible northern blast;

Above its roof the wild clouds leap

And shriek as they hurtle past.

The snow-waves hiss along the plain,

Like spectral wolves they stretch and strain

And race and ramp—with hissing beat,

Like stealthy tread of myriad feet,

I hear them pass; upon the roof

The icy showers swirl and rattle;

At times the moon, from storms aloof,

Shines white and wan within the room—

Then swift clouds drive across the light

And all the plain is lost to sight,

The cabin rocks, and on my palm

The sifted snow falls, cold and calm.

God! What a power is in the wind!

I lay my cheek to the cabin side

To feel the weight of his giant hands—

A speck, a fly in the blasting tide

Of streaming, pitiless, icy sands;

A single heart with its feeble beat—

A mouse in the lion's throat—

A swimmer at sea—a sunbeam's mote

In the grasp of a tempest of hail and sleet!