Charles George Douglas 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.