The season yields, in gay and rich festoons,
Or proud bouquets, adorn the walls around.
The holly, with its grey-green crumpled leaves
And berries bright as rubies, shoots red gleams
Like sunset through a forest. Mistletoe,
The choice of Druids, with its slimy balls
And mystic branchings, fills the pensive mind
With memories wild and weird. All things are here
To link thought to the past; all emblems full
Of rich memento, giving to the heart