Classic Poem

In dreams I hear a music made of snow,
Harmonic chilly idyl of cold sound:
Its echo-twin in polar stars is found,
It moans to still white moons its utter woe.

Gaunt ghost-musicians by the frost-gods crowned,
Drunk upon icicles and snow-drops, glow
With dismal thought in frigid murmurs drowned,
I hear ice melodies through dreamland flow.

Sounds like a dark, cold pond, inviting rime,
Sounds like the freezing, vague, uncertain chime
Of distant bells through airs of endless mist,
Clanging unconsciously to fates above;
Cold as regrets of some frustrated tryst,
Cold as the kiss of lips that know no love.