FROST.
In lofty Nepal in the sheer, refined
Air of some frigid Himalayan vale,
Frost-charmed in ancient ice a sorcerer pale
Shrinks stars and frondes to things of faery-kind.
Now in the night when cold has stilled the wind,
When the snow shines like moonlight in the dale,
His crystals clothe the pane with magic mail,
Or build a legend hoar with rime outlined;
The spoils of dreamland dwarfed to atomies:
Incrusted gems, star-glances overborne
With lids of sleep plucked from the moth’s bright eyes,
And forests dense of ferns blanched and forlorn,
Where Oberon of unimagined size
Might in the silver silence wind his horn.
—Duncan Campbell Scott.