And not a blossom laughing by the ways,
Or wind of April blowing on the wold
But in my heart shall have the power to stir
The shy communion of the worshipper.
Hark! On the star-bright highways of the sky
Light hoofs beat and the far-off sleigh-bell sounds!
Is it old Santa on his gracious rounds
Or one dead legend drifting sadly by?
Not mine to say. And, though I long to peep,
Santa shall always find me fast asleep.