Behind the wood the sad wind plainteth long;
Ah, love, the mirth within the mummer’s song!
In garth and orchard naught but gloom and dearth;
Ah, love, the joy about the Christmas hearth!
Winter’s white woe, its bitter sting and smart—
Ah, love, the love aye vernal, in the heart!
Ballad of Kirkland Hills
The grand old hills of Kirkland
Stood up against the morn,
As o’er a rutty road there strode
A pilgrim lean and lorn.
The wood-crowned hills of Kirkland,
They notched the wan blue sky,
As toward that plodding pilgrim came
A horseman urging by.
“I prithee, weary pilgrim,
Now whither dost thou roam?”
“I seek a gabled farmstead set
Amid these hills of home;
“I seek an ancient rooftree set
Amid these uplands white.”
“God give thee luck,” the horseman cried,
“Before this Christmas night!”
The kindly hills of Kirkland,
They saw, when broad noon shone
Above the fair Oriska vale,
This pilgrim toiling on.
The hemlocks preened their night-dark plumes
As up and up he clomb;
The same old rook-calls welcomed him
Back to the hills of home.