You see the pattern of the ice,
But is it not the paradise,
The garden or the secret bower,
Where blossoms the eternal flower?
The sun is of its craft aware.
Your paradise begins to glare.
So tempts you the forbidden fruit,
As if the diamond were its root.
It is the fairy winter-show,
Your paradise begins to thaw.
You can admire but cannot glean,
What on your window have you seen.