The Frost
The Frost looked forth one still, clear night,
And whispered, “Now I shall be out of sight;
So through the valley and over the height
In silence I’ll take my way.
I will not go on like that blustering train—
The wind and the snow, the hail and the rain,
Who make so much bustle and noise in vain;
But I’ll be as busy as they.”
Then he flew to the mountain, and powdered its crest;
He lit on the trees, and their boughs he dress’d
In diamond beads; and over the breast
Of the quivering lake he spread
A coat of mail, that it need not fear
The downward point of many a spear,
That he hung on its margin, far and near,
Where a rock could rear its head.
He went to the windows of those who slept,
And over each pane, like a fairy, crept;
Wherever he breathed, wherever he stepp’d,
By the light of the morn were seen
Most beautiful things; there were flowers and trees;
There were bevies of birds, and swarms of bees;
There were cities with temples and towers; and these
All pictured in silver sheen!
But he did one thing that was hardly fair—
He peeped in the cupboard, and finding there
That all had forgotten for him to prepare—
“Now, just to set them a-thinking,
I’ll bite this basket of fruit,” said he,
“This costly pitcher I’ll burst in three;
And the glass of water they’ve left for me
Shall ‘tchick!’ to tell them I’m drinking!”
Miss H. F. Gould.