Rhoda A. Faulkner

O’ER the window crept the hoary frost,

With many a wayward freak and curious antic,

In varied lines, that quaintly blent and crossed

In tracery romantic.

Here, bloomed a wreath of pure pale ghostly flowers,

As hueless as the faded cheek of death;

There, rose tall pinnacles and Gothic towers,

That melted with a breath;

With trees and foliage rich—the tinted oak,

The willow, wan and still, like settled grief,

The hazel, easy bent, but hardly broke,

And varying maple leaf.

The gentle moonbeam kissed the silvery pane

With a most sister-like and chaste caress,

As if it fain a fellowship would claim

With such pure loveliness.

And still more beautiful the magic ray

Made all it rested on, leaf, flower, and tree;

And lingered there, like innocence at play

With stainless purity.