Classic Poem

The air is webbed with a strict frost;
And foggily the kenneled hound
Booms; and every noise is lost
In its own sound.

This is a night when people throw
Breath like a steaming shadow, pass
In silver silhouette as though
They moved on glass.

And candles go straight up like strings
Of pointed light, leaving the wick
Undisturbed, and no drip clings
To the candlestick.

The ghostly burghers go to bed,
Citizen and consort creep
From a web of frost, head by head,
To a web of sleep.