The Frosted Pane
One night came Winter noiselessly and leaned
— Against my window-pane.
In the deep stillness of his heart convened
— The ghosts of all his slain.
Leaves, and ephemera, and stars of earth,
— And fugitives of grass, —
White spirits loosed from bonds of mortal birth,
— He drew them on the glass.
— Against my window-pane.
In the deep stillness of his heart convened
— The ghosts of all his slain.
Leaves, and ephemera, and stars of earth,
— And fugitives of grass, —
White spirits loosed from bonds of mortal birth,
— He drew them on the glass.
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