Hoar-Frost

The frail eidolons of all blossoms Spring,
  Year after year, about the forest tossed,
  The magic touch of the enchanter, Frost,
  Back from the Heaven of the Flow'rs doth bring;
  Each branch and bush in silence visiting
  With phantom beauty of its blooms long lost:
  Each dead weed bends, white-haunted of its ghost,
  Each dead flower stands ghostly with blossoming.
  This is the wonder-legend Nature tells
  To the gray moon and mist a winter's night;
  The fairy-tale, which her weird fancy 'spells
  With all the glamour of her soul's delight:
  Before the summoning sorcery of her eyes
  Making her spirit's dream materialize.