The Frost
The frost hangs on the windows cold, While all the trees with hope are bowed, And winter locks the glimmering gold, As half the sky’s in argent shroud.
Yet here, amid the shining snow, The world still whispers sweetly true; In stillness’ grip the heartbeats show The secret lane of each time’s view.
But cheer to you, O chilly force! You hold the beauty in your palm, So let the stars shine bright, endorse A world reborn in winter’s calm!
- John Clare