The pines in all their beauty frown
And barely stir, all weighted down
By clumps of snow; and through the summits
Of naked linden, birch, and ash
The beams from heaven's lanterns flash;
There is no path; the gorge that plummets,
The shrubs, the land ... all lie asleep,
By snowy blizzards buried deep.
14
She's reached the wood, the bear still tracking;
Soft snow, knee-deep, lies all about;
A jutting branch looms up, attacking,
And tears her golden earrings out;
And now another tries to trip her,
And from one charming foot her slipper,
All wet, comes off in crumbly snow;
And now she feels her kerchief go,
She lets it lie, she mustn't linger,
Behind her back she hears the bear,
But shy and frightened, does not dare
To lift her skirt with trembling finger;
She runs . .. but he keeps crashing on . . .
Until at last her strength is gone.
15
She sinks in snow; the bear alertly
Just picks her up and rushes on;
She lies within his arms inertly;
Her breathing stops, all sense is gone.
Along a forest road he surges,
And then, mid trees, a hut emerges;
Dense brush abounds; on every hand
Forlorn and drifting snowbanks stand;
A tiny window glitters brightly,
And from the hut come cries and din;
The bear proclaims: 'My gossip's in.'
'Come warm yourself,' he adds politely,
Then pushes straightway through the door
And lays her down upon the floor.
16
On coming to, she looks around her:
She's in a hall; no bear at least;
The clink of glasses, shouts . . . confound her,
As if it were some funeral feast;
She can't make sense of what she's hearing,
Creeps to the door and, softly peering,
Sees through a crack the strangest thing
A horde of monsters in a ring:
Out of a dog-face horns are sprouting;
One has a rooster's head on top;
A goateed witch is on a mop;
