When frosty fingers flake in pats

On prattling panes and luscious lie,

And oval stars are falling flat

In driven drakes across the sky,

And lamplight lulls the little eyes

That flicker faintly in the deep,

When breaths and lashes rise and rise

And, falling crystal, scatter sleep,

We kick the many-layered night,

Crisp midnight’s sheets are sharp unmade,

And blur-black checks the silver light,

And stair-soft slips the balustrade.

But softly now; and softer still;

The steps sink out of sight,

Flow winding past the window sill

And puddle into night;

Our drifting hand; our heart; the rill

Give fluttering to flight.

Then turning with the world we turn

And with us whirls the wall,

And bare feet flat on floorboards burn

And faster fly than fall;

But frozen! As a Grecian urn,

We scarcely move at all.

For tops of tips of fingers press

Our lips from bend to bend!

Our heart and darkness guess and guess,

The world swims to an end;

But little hands our hands caress,

And whisper "I’m your friend."

Now promising to share my toys,

And wear my hair in curls,

We settle down to play and ploys

And firesides and twirls.

The dearest dream of goblin boys;

To-night, and pixie girls.

-Thomas Clark, 2003