Fugitive Poetry. 1600–1878/The Frosted Trees
The Frosted Trees.
What strange enchantment meets my view,
So wondrous bright and fair?
Has heaven poured out its silver dew
On the rejoicing air?
Or am I borne to regions new
To see the glories there?
So wondrous bright and fair?
Has heaven poured out its silver dew
On the rejoicing air?
Or am I borne to regions new
To see the glories there?
Last eve when sunset filled the sky
With wreaths of golden light,
The trees sent up their arms on high,
All leafless to the sight,
And sleepy mists came down to lie
On the dark breast of night.
With wreaths of golden light,
The trees sent up their arms on high,
All leafless to the sight,
And sleepy mists came down to lie
On the dark breast of night.
But now the scene is changed, and all
Is fancifully new;
The trees, last eve so straight and tall.
Are bending on the view,
And streams of living daylight fall
The silvery arches through.
Is fancifully new;
The trees, last eve so straight and tall.
Are bending on the view,
And streams of living daylight fall
The silvery arches through.
The boughs are strong with glittering pearls,
As dewdrops bright and bland,
And there they gleam in silvery curls,
Like gems of Samarcand,
Seeming in wild fantastic whirls
The works of fairyland.
As dewdrops bright and bland,
And there they gleam in silvery curls,
Like gems of Samarcand,
Seeming in wild fantastic whirls
The works of fairyland.