For U-bar-U, which has neither lake nor sentineled firs, but whose darkness is just as filled with the sounds of the spirits.
The Skater of Ghost Lake
By William Rose Benet
Ghost Lake’s a dark lake, a deep lake and cold:
Ice black as ebony, frostily scrolled;
Far in its shadows a faint sound whirs;
Steep stand the sentineled deep, dark firs.
A brisk sound, a swift sound, a ring-tinkle-ring;
Flit-flit,–a shadow with a stoop and a swing,
Flies from the shadow through the crackling cold.
Ghost Lake’s a deep lake, a dark lake and old!
Leaning and leaning with a stride and a stride,
hands locked behind him, scarf blowing wide,
Jeremy Randall skates, skates late,
Star for a candle, moon for a mate.
Black is the clear glass now that he glides,
Crisp is the whisper of long lean strides,
Swift is his swaying–but pricked ears hark.
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