All the panes are hung with frost
	Wild wizard-work of silver lace.

T. B. Aldrich.    

	What miracle of weird transforming
	Is this wild work of frost and light,
	This glimpse of glory infinite!

Whittier.    

	Come see the north-wind’s masonry.
	Out of an unseen quarry evermore
	Furnished with tile, the fierce artificer
	Curves his white bastions with projected roof
	Round every windward stake, or tree, or door.

Emerson.    

	These winter nights, against my windowpane
	Nature with busy pencil draws designs
	Of ferns and blossoms and fine spray of pines,
	Oak-leaf and acorn and fantastic vines,
	Which she will make when summer comes again—
	Quaint arabesques in argent, flat and cold,
	Like curious Chinese etchings.

T. B. Aldrich.    

	He comes,—he comes,—the Frost Spirit comes!—from the frozen Labrador,—
	From the icy bridge of the Northern seas, which the white bear wanders o’er,—
	Where the fisherman’s sail is stiff with ice, and the luckless forms below
	In the sunless cold of the lingering night into marble statues grow!

Whittier.