Frost Pictures

Pictures on the window,

Painted by Jack Frost,

Coming at the midnight,

With the moon are lost;

Here a row of fir-trees,

Standing straight and tall;

There a rapid river,

And a waterfall.

Here a branch of coral

From the briny sea;

There a weary traveller

Resting 'neath a tree;

Here a grand old iceberg,

Floating slowly on;

There a mighty forest

Of the torrid zone.

Here a swamp, all tangled,—

Rushes, ferns and brake;

There a rugged mountain,

Here a little lake.

Then a breath, the lightest

Floating in the air,

Jack Frost catches quickly,

And imprints it there.

And thus you are painting,

Little children, too,

On your life's fair window

Always something new;

But your little pictures

Will not pass away

Like those Jack Frost's fingers

Paint each winter day.

Each kind word or action

Is a picture bright;

Every duty mastered

Is lovely in the light;

But each thought of anger,

Every word of strife,

Blemishes the picture,

Stains the glass of life.

Then be very careful,

Every day and hour,

Lest unseemly touches

Trace your window o'er;

Let the lines be always

Made by kindness bright,—

Paint your glass with pictures

Of the true and right.