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,

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