 | A Child of the People |  |
169
CHRISTMAS.
The round world hangs 'mid Christmas stars her sphere;
She counts their choirs; no loss nor change they show;
But round our hearths old friends, perplexed and slow,
Gaze each on each, grown foreign in a year.
Then one will wonder, “Why are all not here?
Of old they did not honour Christmas so.”
One tells him: “They are dead; did you not know?”
Nor asks of others lest like news he hear.
She counts their choirs; no loss nor change they show;
But round our hearths old friends, perplexed and slow,
Gaze each on each, grown foreign in a year.
Then one will wonder, “Why are all not here?
Of old they did not honour Christmas so.”
One tells him: “They are dead; did you not know?”
Nor asks of others lest like news he hear.
Yet to keep merry Christmas we are willed.
This year, as last, all blue the lights shall burn,
And 'mid the fun snap-dragon fires be spilled,
And steaming punch-bowls subtle fragrance spurn,
Though ever empty chairs divide the filled,
And solemn phantoms pledge the guests in turn.
This year, as last, all blue the lights shall burn,
And 'mid the fun snap-dragon fires be spilled,
And steaming punch-bowls subtle fragrance spurn,
Though ever empty chairs divide the filled,
And solemn phantoms pledge the guests in turn.
| A Child of the People | |