THE fog is freezing on the trees and shrubs; Each tendril of the larch is edged with lace; The tiniest twigs are filigreed with frost; There is faint movement through an open space— And lovely white ghosts wake mysteriously Like white thoughts smiling through gray memory. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE SICKNESS by CHARLES BUKOWSKI THE FAIRY THORN; AN ULSTER BALLAD by SAMUEL FERGUSON THE GLOVE AND THE LIONS by JAMES HENRY LEIGH HUNT THE MEN BEHIND THE GUNS by JOHN JEROME ROONEY YARROW UNVISITED by WILLIAM WORDSWORTH |