They are the ghosts of flowers,
The blossoms of fairer hours,
I see on the window-pane!
They died in woodland and heather,
But lo! in this wintry weather,
Their petals unfold again.

O rare and wonderful flowers
That bloom in these crystal bowers!
How their splendors glance and gleam!
How they o’erflow where the silver sedge
Fringes the rivulet's edge.
And flush in the morning's beam!

Arbutus and Eglantine;
The bell of the Columbine,
Poised on its stately stem;
Aster and Fleur-de-lis;
Wind-kissed Anemone,
And the Star of Bethlehem!

These, and a numberless train,
I trace on the frosty pane, —
Are they pictures of the brain?
Ah, no! they are exquisite flowers,
The phantoms of sunnier hours,
That blossom in beauty again.