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 windows silver white.
He must have waited till you slept,
And not a single word he spoke,
But penciled o’er the panes and crept
Away before you woke.
And now you can not 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 armour 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
And 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.
For creeping softly underneath
The door when all the lights are out,
Jack Frost takes every breath you breathe
And knows the things you think about.
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.
