When hills and plains are powdered white,
And bitter cold the north wind blows,
Upon my window in the night
A fairy-garden grows.
Here lilies that no hand hath sown
Bloom white as foam upon the sea,
And elfin bells to earth unknown,
Hold frost-bound melody.
And here are blossoms like to stars
Tangled in nets of silver lace,--
My very breath their beauty mars,
Or stirs them from their place.
Perchance the echoes of old songs,
Found here a resting place at last,
With drifting perfume, that belongs
To roses of the past,--
Or all the moonbeams that were lost
On summer nights the world forgets,
May here be prisoned by the frost,
With souls of violets.
* * * * *
The wind doth shepherd many things,--
And when the nights are long and cold,
Who knows how strange a flock he brings
All safely to the fold.