Fugitive Poetry. 1600–1878/Frost

Frost.

The frost looked forth one still clear night,And he said—"I shall soon 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 went to the mountain, and powdered its crest,He climbed up the trees, and their boughs he drestWith diamonds and pearls, and over the breast Of the quivering lake he spreadA coat of mail, that it might not fearThe downward point of many a spear,Which he hung on the 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 stept, By the light of the moon were seenMost beautiful things; there were flowers and trees,There were bevies of birds and swarms of bees,There were cities, thrones, temples, and towns—and these All pictured in silver sheen.

But he did one thing that was hardly fair—He went to the cupboard, and, finding thereThat all had forgotten for him to prepare; "Now, just to set them thinking,

I'll bite this basket of fruit," said he,"This bloated pitcher I'll burst in three,And the glass of water they've left for me Shall crack to tell I've been drinking!"