High on the hills of Kirkland
Where hale the north-wind roared,
O gay were they that grouped about
The heapèd Christmas board!
And yet the brooding mother,
With smiles she hid the tear
For one whose lips she had not kissed
This many a lonely year;
For one whose wander-lust had led
His roving spirit far,
Until she dreamed he slept beneath
The clear Alaskan star.
Hark, at the door a summons!
A step upon the sill!
O mother-eyes abrim with joy,
And mother-heart athrill!
And O ye hills of Kirkland,
In wintry white and gray,
A gladder sight ye never saw
On any Christmas day!
The Closed Room
In the marvelous house of life
Each year is a closèd room;
It is filled with peace and strife,
It is packed with glow and gloom.
There are hopes in the hues of dream,
There are cares in their grim array,
There are pleasures that glint and gleam,
And sorrows in drugget gray.
For some, with his infinite grace,
Love waits when the portal jars;
For some, with his sphinx-like face,
Death stands when the door unbars.
Some back from the threshold shrink,
As loath from the past to part;
But the most plunge over the brink
With never a fear at heart.