The meaning deep, like mystery,
That lies in holly-bough or mistletoe,
May thousands never fathom—yet who know
And hail the Christmas-tree.
So strong a hold on human thought
Has this glad day that seasons all the year
With the rich flavoring of hearty cheer,
It ne'er shall be forgot.
It is the milestone on life's road
Where we may lay our burdens down, and take
A look at souvenirs, for love's dear sake
So prettily bestowed.
Upon its shining tablet we may write—
If, like the good Samaritan, in deed—
A record that the angel band shall read
With impulse of delight.
And this is why on Christmas morn
The world should smile and wear its brightest glow:
Because some nineteen hundred years ago
A little child was born.
January, 1885.
These winter days are passing fair!
As if a breath of spring
Had permeated all the air,
And touched each living thing
With thankfulness for such a boon—
Discounting with a scoff
The almanac's report that "June
Is yet a long way off!"
We quarrel with the calendar—
For May has been misplaced—
And doubt the tale oracular
Of "Janus, double-faced;"
For this "ethereal mildness" looks
Toward shadowy delights
Of roseate bowers, of cosy nooks,
Of coming thermal nights.