Fugitive Poetry. 1600–1878/The Frosted Trees

The Frosted Trees.

What strange enchantment meets my view, So wondrous bright and fair?Has heaven poured out its silver dew On the rejoicing air?Or am I borne to regions new To see the glories there?

Last eve when sunset filled the sky With wreaths of golden light,The trees sent up their arms on high, All leafless to the sight,And sleepy mists came down to lie On the dark breast of night.

But now the scene is changed, and all Is fancifully new;The trees, last eve so straight and tall. Are bending on the view,And streams of living daylight fall The silvery arches through.

The boughs are strong with glittering pearls, As dewdrops bright and bland,And there they gleam in silvery curls, Like gems of Samarcand,Seeming in wild fantastic whirls The works of fairyland.