Classic Poem

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.

He must have waited till you slept;
— And not a single word he spoke,
But penciled o'er the panes and crept
— Away again before you woke.

And now you cannot see the hills
— 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.

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.