Frost girl
lay your cool hand upon my brow,
I am burning with love's fever.
There are delicate ice-blossoms in your gaze
and snowflakes in your deep black hair
- or are they tiny stars?
I dreamt of nutmeg and cinnamon,
of ginger and cloves and the petals of pink roses;
I dreamt of pineapples and coconuts
and little pink and yellow shells
washed up on a pale gold shore.
Frost girl
speak to me in reasonable tones
and tell me that I have been dreaming,
wrap me in the chill north wind
and sing me frozen lullabies.
What business do I have dreaming of rubies and sapphires,
of flowers or autumn leaves;
what business do I have to dream of forests
or nightingales or summer
when frost lays over all the land?
