The gorgeous traceries of snowy ice
Are only visible inside the glass.
All those who, huddled in their peacoats, pass
Close by the window are oblivious
And trudge on by. To call it simply nice
Would be an error; if it all were thus
And frozen thus in perpetuity
The world would come on pilgrimage to gaze
Just for a moment on sublime beauty
And stop in awe and blank ecstatic praise;
The hours would drag on unnoticed, while
The eye drank in its fill, and every curl
Of chilly loveliness would be a pearl
For poets to exalt in epic style.
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