A Game of Chess

by Mortimer Collins

Terrace and lawn are white with frost,
  Whose fretwork flowers upon the panes--
A mocking dream of summer, lost
      'Mid winter's icy chains.

White-hot, indoors, the great logs gleam,
  Veiled by a flickering flame of blue:
I see my love as in a dream--
      Her eyes are azure, too.

She puts her hair behind her ears
  (Each little ear so like a shell),
Touches her ivory Queen, and fears
      She is not playing well.

For me, I think of nothing less:
  I think how those pure pearls become her--
And which is sweetest, winter chess
      Or garden strolls in summer.

O linger, frost, upon the pane!
  O faint blue flame, still softly rise!
O, dear one, thus with me remain,
      That I may watch thine eyes!