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...A MINOR POET by STEPHEN VINCENT BENET CONTRA MORTEM: THE MOUNTAIN FASTNESS by HAYDEN CARRUTH FOR ST. BARTHOLOMEW'S EVE by MALCOLM COWLEY INEVITABLY (2) by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON MARTHA WASHINGTON by SIDNEY LANIER ON CARPACCIO'S PICTURE: THE DREAM OF ST. URSALA; SONNET by AMY LOWELL |