The Book of the Native

by Charles G.D. Roberts


 

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,

5
    And fugitives of grass,—
White spirits loosed from bonds of mortal birth,
    He drew them on the glass.