Sthephan G. Stephansson Poetry
SNOWFLAKE, DAUGHTER OF KING FROST
And she was pretty, though rather pale of face,
and wise of mind, and versed in runic staves.
She had two playmates in her childhood days:
long winter and the stormy northern waves.
Her face lit up like sun and frozen ice
that drapes its silver mantle on mountain dales.
Never the north bore a child with brighter eyes
than Snowflake, born the daughter of King Frost.
People said that she would sit for nights untold
in magic rites outside, for she knew well
each forgotten chapter from the sagas of old
and ancient poems she could sing and tell.
For when the force of men and land would seem
to freeze within on all those chilly nights,
her spirit would wrap time past in vernal beam
like winter sky the belt of northern lights.
So time passed. Then like the sound of merriment
striking her lonely silence, she had a guest.
He was the messenger of King Sturlaug, sent
from the halls of nations richest and mightiest.
Whenever they met, the guest regaled his host
with tales of Sturlaug's fame and southern pleasures.
And then she felt that on that barren coast
her lot was sad, her hall devoid of treasures.
And Sturlaug's marriage offer hard and fast
poured from that eloquent, crafty courtier's tongue,
until her native wisdom failed at last
and she eloped with him, Snowflake the young.
It all was false. And yet she was so wise
that no one in any country was alive
as skilled as her in giving good advice
that could release a mighty king from strife.
And it is mentioned of her dying day
that the villains had her put to death and burned.
– But here I think the story's gone astray
and another, far superior fate she earned.
For still when winter covers peaks and dales
and frosts keep Iceland's farmers from their chores,
Snowflake still seems to tell her ancient tales
and old Frost's daughter chants her songs and lore.
II.
I know a land born by the frozen north
with lava fields and glaciers of grey ice!
And poetry's day and saga's sun rose forth
when few stars glittered in the southern skies.
And where should troubled nations find anew
the hidden treasure their grand past brought forth?
That land alone could solve the riddling clue:
it was the tongue of the ancient northern realm.
It paid the price in long humiliation
when trickery and its own ignorance would conspire
and it chose to yield to royal domination
and was said to cast its energy to the fire.
But untouched by any flame, my forebears' land,
you have the youthful force to wake you soon.
In the people and the cliffs it slumbers yet
Like the valkyrie who awoke in mighty armour.
For sagas are still read in the farmer's croft
and ancient verses sung with beauteous sound,
though they may lack the old familiar ring
and the melodies sung in a voice that still sounds strange.
It heralds spring, though lacking all the grace
of the birches that once grew amidst the wilds.
It fills the countryside with merry voice,
it toughens shrubs within the vanished woods.
And when the land's own soul at last awakes
and scans the valley like the sun in spring,
it will inherit a far more precious tongue
and wealth concealed in the saga nation's thoughts.
And it will stir this certainty to life:
For all the gaps in wealth and fertile soil,
the best that ever grows on any ground
is a noble nation with spirit amply rich.
For deep within the icy, frozen ground
are melodies deep and yearned for, yet unfound. –
But joy will ring out over mountain and fjord
when the hand appears at last to strike that chord.
Written in 1895
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