Seems charged to-night, seems subtly thrilled
By glad previsions of a rare,
Strange happiness, yet unfulfilled.
I sense this thing, and still my heart
Is numb, lethargic, dead. I hold
Myself from all the world apart.
The Christmas spirit leaves me cold.
Below me, in the frosty street,
I hear the city’s muffled song
Of carnival—the tramp of feet,