This lady is like a grass-blade sheathed in ice,
Like hoar-frost running along the borders of a formal garden.
She is like violets under the misted glass of a cold frame
On an Autumn morning with the sun scarcely above the trees.

The air has a smart twinge to it, I think,
And the asters are black and broken;
But what can equal the glitter of the frosty grass-blades,
Held to a rigid radiance,
Bent and motionless,
Answering nothing to the wind?
No, do not lift the frames.
The violets are a lovely touch of colour,
And I would rather forego the scent of them
Than run the risk of their freezing.