David to thy distillage went, Keats, and Gotama excellent, Omar Khayyam, and Chaucer bright, And Shakespeare for a king-delight.
Then, Time, let not a drop be spilt; Hand me the cup whene'er thou wilt; 'Tis thy rich stirrup-cup to me; I'll drink it down right smilingly.
Das Krist Kindel.[H]
BY JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY.
I had fed the fire and stirred it, till the sparkles in delight Snapped their saucy little fingers at the chill December night; And in dressing-gown and slippers, I had tilted back "my throne"— The old split-bottomed rocker—and was musing all alone.
I could hear the hungry Winter prowling round the outer door, And the tread of muffled footsteps on the white piazza floor; But the sounds came to me only as the murmur of a stream That mingled with the current of a lazy-flowing dream.
Like a fragrant incense rising, curled the smoke of my cigar, With the lamp-light gleaming through it like a mist-enfolded star;— And as I gazed, the vapor like a curtain rolled away, With a sound of bells that tinkled, and the clatter of a sleigh.
And in a vision, painted like a picture in the air, I saw the elfish figure of a man with frosty hair— A quaint old man that chuckled with a laugh as he appeared, And with ruddy cheeks like embers in the ashes of his beard.