A Game of Chess

Terrace and lawn are white with frost, Whose fretwork flowers upon the panes— A mocking dream of summer, lost 'Mid winter's icy chains.

White-hot, indoors, the great logs gleam, Veiled by a flickering flame of blue: I see my love as in a dream— Her eyes are azure, too.

She puts her hair behind her ears (Each little ear so like a shell), Touches her ivory Queen, and fears She is not playing well.

For me, I think of nothing less: I think how those pure pearls become her— And which is sweetest, winter chess Or garden strolls in summer.

O linger, frost, upon the pane! O faint blue flame, still softly rise! O, dear one, thus with me remain, That I may watch thine eyes!