In Print 13

Oh why cast thou thy silver shadows ere breaking of the day
To make the pavements glisten before my spangled way?
Or to numb by bitten fingers and warmth of blood to drain,
Terrible yet beautiful thou waste of frozen rain?

When breath is but white clouds of mist,
The tree a lifeless block of wood through which the wind may hiss,
Then comes the frost in the wintry air,
Like long-lost gilt upon an aged chair.

When logs burn against the growing cold,
And frosted greybeard clings silver to the bark of trees two hundred winters old,
Then grow the faces red and raw,
But soon the frost is gone once more.