THE SECRET
Old Santa Claus came with his pack
On his back
Right down the chimney flue;
His long flowing beard was ghostlike and weird
But his cheeks had a ruddy hue;
And his jacket was as red as a woodpecker's head
But his breeches, I think, were blue.
I heard a soft step like a hoof
On the roof,
And I closed my outside eye;
Then played-like I slept, but the other eye kept
A watch on the jolly old guy;
And I caught him in the act with his bundles all unpacked,
But I'm not going to tell, not I.
When Santa comes again this year
With his deer
And a sled full of toys for me,
I don't mean to keep either eye from its sleep
While he climbs my Christmas tree;
For I don't think it's right to the happy old wight
To spy on his mystery.
A RHYMELESS SONNET
Sardonic Death, clothed in a scarlet shroud,
Salutes his minions on the crumbling thrones
Of Tyranny, and with malicious leer,
He points a fleshless finger toward the fields
Of Belgium: "No harvest since the days
Of Bonaparte and Waterloo hath filled
My flagons with a wine of such a taste;
Your crowns ye hold by rights divine indeed!"
But One has entered in at lowly doors
And sits by every hearthstone where they will:
"My Word enthron-ed in Democracy
Has twined the holly round Columbia's brow—
A crown of 'Peace on earth, good will to men.'
I am the Resurrection and the Life!"