The firelight listens on the floor
To hear the wild winds blow.
Within, the bursting roses burn,
Without, there slides the snow.
Across the flower I see the flake
Pass mirrored, mystic, slow.
Oh, blooms and storms must blush and freeze,
While seasons come and go!
I lift the sash—and live, the gale
Comes leaping to my call.
The rose is but a painted one
That hangs upon the wall.