The ground sparkling with thousands of frosty jewels. The stream gleaming in the morning sun. The pale mist rising above the water. The silent willows catching the first sun rays. Not even a whisper of a breeze, not a sound to be heard for miles. The magical gifts of the last November morning.
When the sun hangs low in the eastern sky,
Caught in the trees that shiver and shy,
Red as the robin that flits nearby,
Sing hey, for a frosty morning!
When the lane is a-glitter beneath our feet,
Powered with crystal, delicate, sweet,
And the quiet pond is a silver sheet,
Sing hey, for a frosty morning!
Come out, come out, while the sky is red,
Over the crunching fields to tread,
Ere the frost in the kindling sun lies dead,
Sing, hey for a frosty morning!
Enid Blyton
Share this story
Comments Expand -
Add a Comment