top of page

The heART of Ritual


Seasonal Poetry & Prose: 'The Frost', by Hannah Flagg Gould

The Frost looked forth, one still, clear night,

And he said, 'Now I shall be out of sight;

So through the valley and over the height

In silence I'll take my way.

I will not go 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 dressed

With diamonds and pearls, and over the breast

Of the quivering lake he spread

A coat of mail, that it need not fear

The downward point of many a spear

That he hung on its 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 stepped,

By the light of the moon were seen

Most beautiful things. There were flowers and trees,

There were bevies of birds and swarms of bees,

There were cities, thrones, temples, and towers, and these

All pictured in silver sheen!

But he did one thing that was hardly fair, -

He peeped in the cupboard, and, finding there

That all had forgotten for him to prepare, -

'Now, just to set them a-thinking,

I'll bite this basket of fruit,' said he;

'This costly pitcher I'll burst in three,

And the glass of water they've left for me

Shall 'tchick!' to tell them I'm drinking.

'The Frost', by Hannah Flagg Gould

Artist Margaret Walty


bottom of page