True source of blood, Op. 26

Once, on Decembre's hoary reach,
I came upon where blood on milk was spill'd,
And a stain of damask was on ground instill'd.
That spot was of the colour of blood,
And blood was then of frozen crisp,
And now all tinted was the cloudy wisp;
And all the flakes in it wore the image of setting sun.
For a while, the colours I wonder'd,
In calm mood its lively hues I ponder'd,
Till at last I conclud'd, that some weary wretch,
Had gasp'd its last where I only idly remain'd,
And below my boot once its life had wane'd.
That day was the kind of sharp and clear,
And so cold that soon my fingers felt numb,
As numb as all my senses had by then become;
All was silent; as far as eye could tell,
All was rent white, and as pure as heaven's gate,
'Cept where the blood continue'd on straight,
And made its own path across the now frozen land.
I told you I was idle; as idle as I ever were,
With happy and pleasant company; as idle as I'd ever be,
So I decided to follow, with some suppress'd glee,
And there link'd my own path onto it too,
Trailing the icy trail across the frozen vale,
As if passing my way across the ice-clad dale.
The path I follow'd was some old river's run,
And its solid way I now did tread,
Following where some weak force once had bled,
Fleeing some more or less mortal threat.
As I went, I amused myself with a question of thought,
Who had this object of my quest wrought?
Mayhaps, a pair of silver hawks there had fought,
And in white plumage slash'd each with their wing,
Fought for a lady, or for the honour of their king;
Or else, perhaps winterly mouse or a shrew,
In their mask'd colour of pretentious virgin,
Had fled some white owl's woeful scourging;
Or even, depending on how you'd look,
An Eagle, in either divine or satanic align'd,
Had there gracefully on more regal prey reclin'd.
While there I walk'd, I saw the land slightly steep,
And while straight and onwards the river still went,
Soon it crashing down a cliffside bent,
Till it form'd a mighty icicle from heaven descending.
What could I say of the coulour of that stone,
For all the hues in it were rent the colour of bone,
And the towering cliff seem'd but a front of a glacier,
Its mighty figures were obscured in snow,
Although from hidden crevices there I saw grow,
A number of hallow'd and defiant things.
I look'd down; nothing look'd back to me,
And seeing nothing was all I there did see,
I made my way back to the edge of the ice,
And lying down I peek'd far far below the sky,
And there was ice as far as could see my eye,
Until, in the deepest corner I saw a dead dove lay.
So pure were her pinions, that I could not believe,
That her's was death, thought my eyes did me deceive,
Yet gone was all warmth, her white the whiteness of ice,
And her armour I saw pierced by a scarlet lance.
Only then came the silence; I gave her no further glance,
Yet the thought there remain'd, and for a while, so did I,
Though pleasure it'd been, mine was a melancholic mood,
And I wonder'd long, the source of that blood.