by Herbert Asquith
When I try to skate,
My feet are so wary
They grit and they grate:
And when I watch Mary
Easily gliding
Skimming and curving,
Out and in
With a turn of her head,
And a lift of her chin,
And a gleam in her eye
And a twirl and a spin;
Sailing under
The breathless hush
Of the willows, and back
To the frozen rush;
Out to the island
And round the edge,
Skirting the rim
Of the crackling sedge,
swerving close
To the poplar root,
And round the lake
On a single foot,
With a three, and an eight,
And a loop and a ring;
Where Mary glides,
The lake will sing!
Out in the mist
I hear her now
Under the frost
Of the willow bough
Easily sailing
Light and fleet
With the song of the lake
Beneath her feet.
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