O city of the inland domes along the Winter's track,
Whose hills were white by day and night o'er lakes of Arctic fire,
Where the blue air drove your ice-boats out beside the bluffs and back,
'Twas there among your skaters that I found my heart's desire —
The tasseled head, the cloak of red,
The swiftest of your skaters with the feet that never tire!

Hands across we whirled away — away from all the rest
At set of sun, through silent wastes, and paths of orange fire,
Onward to the purple coves and woods below the west,
Where the rumbling ice was greener and the world-end winds were higher —
Round tasseled cap and scarlet wrap,
The fleetest of your skaters with the stroke that would not tire.

With hands still fast, unharmed, at last around, around we bore,
At moonrise through the twilight, down a strip of lunar fire,
Orion floating up the south, where summer nights before,
I'd seen from out my light canoe the coming of the Lyre —
From light canoe, ere yet I flew
With her, the scarlet skater with the starlight streaming by her.

O City of the inland domes beneath the polar star
(Gold light, silver light, bells in the spire),
Where the blue air drove your ice-boats out along the bluffs afar,
'Twas there among your daughters that I found my soul's desire —
The flaming wings, the thrill of things,
The Spirit of the Far and Wide whose feet can never tire.