Frost On A Window

By Grace Hazard Conkling

This forest looks the way
Nightingales sound.
Tall larches lilt and sway
Above the glittering ground:
The wild white cherry spray
Scatters radiance round.
The chuckle of the nightingale
Is like this elfin wood.
Even as his gleaming trills assail
The spirit’s solitude,
These leaves of light, these branches frail
Are music’s very mood.
The song of these fantastic trees,
The plumes of frost they wear,
Are for the poet’s whim who sees
Through a deceptive air,
And has an ear for melodies
When never a sound is there.

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