Christmas

by Unknown

And hear the ringing of the wheels upon the frosty ground,

And see the drip that downward steals in icy casket bound.

I daresay you'll be on the lake, or sliding on the snow,

And breathing on your hands to make the circulation flow,

Nestling your nose among the furs of which your boa's made,—

The Fahrenheit here registers a hundred in the shade.

It is not quite a Christmas here with this unclouded sky,

This pure transparent atmosphere, this sun mid-heaven-high;

To see the rose upon the bush, young leaves upon the trees,

And hear the forest's summer hush or the low hum of bees.