Jack Frost

The door was shut, as doors should be,

Before you went to bed last night;

Yet Jack Frost has got in, you see,

And left your window silver white.

And now you cannot see the trees

Nor fields that stretch beyond the lane;

But there are fairer things than these

His fingers traced on every pane:

Rocks and castles towering high;

Hills and dales and streams and fields;

And knights in armor riding by,

With nodding plumes and shining shields.

And here are little boats, and there

Big ships with sails spread to the breeze;

And yonder, palm-trees waving fair

On islands set in silver seas.

And butterflies with gauzy wings;

And herds of cows and flocks of sheep;

And fruit and flowers and all the things

You see when you are sound asleep.

He paints them on the window-pane

In fairy lines with frozen steam;

And when you wake, you see again

The lovely things you saw in dream.