Poems (Chitwood)/Frost Pictures on the Pane

by Mary Louisa Chitwood

FROST PICTURES ON THE PANE.

Like a fair nun sadly pining,
Is the quiet young moon shining;
Something in the light, is lonely;
Or, perchance, my own heart only,
Shuts itself in shadows dreary—
Sad and wounded, weak and weary;
For, to-night, dark sorrow traces
Lines upon my hearts deep places;
And to honor fancy's pleading,
And to stop my heart from bleeding,
Let me go to her domain,
Tracing pictures on the pane.

What is this? A church, with larches,
Ivy, dark, about its arches?
Steep roofed, with dark masses dotted,
Eaves, by time's stern fingers spotted?
Night birds in the belfry sleeping,
Wind-moans, sounding half like weeping,
And, within, pale spirits flitting
Down the aisles; in brown pews sitting,
To the ghostly parson listening,
In his robe so stiff and glistening;—
This doth fancy trace, all plain,
On the frosty window pane.

Now I see a forest dismal,
"Beetling rock, and gorge abysmal,"
Caverns dark,—the bandit's palace,—
Fierce men drinking from each chalice,
Knives and swords, with blood-stains glisten,
As to each low sound they listen;
With the light on fair brow beaming,
Sleeps the chieftain's young bride, dreaming
Of the home she loved in childhood,
Of her dark life in the wild wood;—
Ah! I would not see again
That sad picture on the pane!

Fancy, fancy, something brighter,
Something fairer, something lighter;
So then trace, in sunny humor,
Some sweet picture of the summer;
Of the winter I am weary—
Leafless trees, and brown earth dreary.
Pencil something to enchant me,
Something bright, that will not haunt me;
Something like a harp's low trilling,
That may set the heart to thrilling,
Paint me, ere I look again,
On the frosty window pane.

All my inner soul grows tender;
Oh, what glory, and what splendor;—
Do I see the golden portal?
Do I view the sweet immortal?
Glimpses of the fair evangels,
Shining seraphs, blessed angels,
Light wings, like the pure snow gleaming,
Gem-like haloes o'er them beaming.
Fancy, take away the glory;
Dark, dark earth is yet before me;
To that earth I look again,

From the frost-work on the pane.
Comes there light through every sorrow,
Shining faintly on the morrow;
When I cross the narrow river,
When earth's last tie snaps forever,
Then, Oh then, the glorious real,
Will outshine the rare ideal;
Never, never yet the mortal
Gazed beyond the pearly portal.
If the shadow, faintly beaming,
Is so beautiful in dreaming,
Who shall paint the bright domain,
From the tracery on the pane.