The midnight frost is forever still
Till the morn breaks up the hill
Without a breath's tender touch
Without a foot's clustered clutch
As if for the silence a chilling couch.
The midnight frost is quite inert
As if she were a hurtless introvert
Submitted to one's self in devotion
Yet reflects the whole in some strange fashion
And a great witness with no hesitation.
The midnight frost is forever still
Till the morn breaks up the hill.
Alive was she in the deepest silence.
None noticed, none did defence.
None will miss her in her absence.
