[Footnote 4: The Walkyrie in Teutonic mythology, whose office it is to bear the souls of fallen heroes from the field of battle.]
But very soon, Upon a frosty winter's noon, The little cloud returned below, Falling in flakes of snow; Falling most softly on the floor most hard Of an old manor-house court-yard. And as it hastened to the earth again, The children sang behind the window-pane: "Old woman, up yonder, plucking your geese, Quickly pluck them, and quickly cease; Throw down the feathers, and when you have done, We shall have fun--we shall have fun." The snow had fallen, when with song and shout The girls and boys came out; Six sturdy little men and maids, Carrying heather-brooms, and wooden spades, Who swept and shovelled up the fallen snow, Which whimpered,--"Oh! oh! oh! Oh, Mother, most severe! Pity me lying here, I'm shaken all to pieces with that storm, Raise me and clothe me in a human form."
They swept up much, they shovelled up more, There never was such a snow-man before! They built him bravely with might and main, There never will be such a snow-man again! His legs were big, his body was bigger, They made him a most imposing figure; His eyes were large and as black as coal, For a cinder was placed in each round hole. And the sight of his teeth would have made yours ache, Being simply the teeth of an ancient rake. They smoothed his forehead, they patted his back, There wasn't a single unsightly crack; And when they had given the final pat, They crowned his head with the scare-crow's hat.
And so The Brook--the Cloud--the Snow, Got its own way after so many days, And did put on a human form and face. But whether The situation pleased it altogether; If it is nice To be a man of snow and ice; Whether it feels Painful, when one congeals; How this man felt When he began to melt; Whether he wore his human form and face With any extraordinary grace; If many mortals fell As victims to the spell; Or if, As he stood, stark and stiff, With a bare broomstick in his arms, And not a trace of transcendental charms, That man of snow Grew wise enough to know That the Brook's hopes were but a Poet's dream, And well content to be again a stream, On the first sunny day, Flowed quietly away; Or what the end was--You must ask the Poet, I don't know it.