FROST PICTURES.
When, like a sullen exile driven forth,
Southward, December drags his icy chain,
He graves fair pictures of his native North
On the crisp window pane.
Southward, December drags his icy chain,
He graves fair pictures of his native North
On the crisp window pane.
So some pale captive blurs, with lips unshorn,
The latticed glass, and shapes rude outlines there,
With listless finger, and a look forlorn,
Cheating his dull despair.
The latticed glass, and shapes rude outlines there,
With listless finger, and a look forlorn,
Cheating his dull despair.
