And through the field beyond the gin.
Just as the stars are going in,
See Santa Claus departing—grieving—
His own dear land of cotton leaving.
His work is done; he fain would rest
Where people know and love him best.
He pauses, listens, looks about;
But go he must: “his pass is out.”
So, coughing down the rising tears,
He climbs the fence and disappears.