The door was shut, as doors should be, Before you went to bed last night,

Yet John 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 pencill'd o'er the panes and crept

Away again before you woke.

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 armour riding by

With plumes and spears 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 birds and bees, and cows and 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,

John 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 wondrous things you saw in dream.

Londoners have the great advantage, in hard frosts, of being able to enjoy these frozen pictures, for nowhere can they be seen to such perfection as on the large window-panes of cold empty shops. Many people must have remarked this last winter.