Thick the mist at early morning's dawn,
Cold the chill that enters by the door,
White the frost, that lies, across the lawn,
Each one piercing, striking to the core
Of one's whole being. Then wakes the foggy morn,
Where sunshine will in time, melt frost on haw,
And rouse the sleeping field mouse in the corn,
By dripping water down upon his paw.
He'll scuttle off, expression all forlorn,
To leave the day to begin its gentle thaw.
© Ernestine Northover
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem