JACK FROST'S SONG
I RIDE on the wings of the north-west wind
From my home in the frozen seas,
Where I lie and rest with a quiet mind
When bloweth the summer breeze.
I filch the rainbow from out the skies,
And place it on maple leaves;
I whisper the swallow, away he flies
From his nest beneath the eaves.
I work in the dark of the blackest night,
And paint pictures upon the pane;
What though the sun in his noonday might
Dims them, I limn them again.
I draw, as I please, the tender spray
Of fern, with its feathery grace;
And if that dies out in the sun's warm ray,
I put a pine in its place.
But this is only my pleasant play
While sunbeams lie and dream;
For I clasp in my chilling clutch by day
The throat of the gurgling stream.
I still its music. I strip the trees
Of their leaves, and kill the flowers;
I hush the hum of the busy bees,
Who work during summer hours.
I tumble the fences, and lift the grain
From where it lies in the soil;
I pinch the poor on their way to gain
Their bread by their daily toil.
But when spring days come I change my mind,
For I am a fickle soul;
So I mount on the wings of the south-west winds,
And ride to the Arctic Pole.
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