Classic Poem

In the glass something glimmers, cold and sad.
I feebly stand there, my breath clouding it,
and it flutters its frozen wings as if tame.
Rub at it, rub at it though I may,
black night surges away, then back, collides,
sodden stars sparkle, set like gems.
Rubbing glass alone by night
is a lonely, rapturous contemplation,
with the tender veins ruptured in your lungs.
Ah, you have flown away like some wild bird!