The Artist
Last night
An artist came and drew
Upon my window-pane;
And fron his hoary skill
I knew
Jack frost had come again.
Strange shapes
Festoon the opaque glass
With myriad forms diverse;
Whilst all my pipes and drains
Surpass
Description in mere words.
Huge blocks
Of ice assume weird moulds
On glistering, niveous eaves;
The melting sun chisels
And scolds,
And fantasy achieves.
At length
My artist’s work is lost,
(Due to the warm sun’s zeal),
In tumult washed away;
But Frost
Will come again to thrill.
