The frost moved up the window-pane
Against the sun's advance,
In line and pattern weaving there
Rich scenes of old romance-
Armies on the Russian snows,
Cockade, sword, and lance.
It spun a web more magical,
Each moment creeping higher,
For marble cities crowned the hills
With turret, fane and spire,
Till when it struck the flaming sash,
The Kremlin was on fire.