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...AMERICA TO GREAT BRITAIN by WASHINGTON ALLSTON SANDALPHON by HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW SONGO RIVER; CONNECTING LAKE SEBAGO AND LONG LAKE by HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW A SPINNING SONG by JOHN FRANCIS O'DONNELL THE HEART KNOWETH ITS OWN BITTERNESS' (2) by CHRISTINA GEORGINA ROSSETTI |