 | Poems by Sarah Helen Whitman |  |
165
CHRISTMAS EVE.
TO MY LITTLE FRIENDS AT NEW ROCHELLE.
Let fall the curtains, drop the shades;
Behind the hills the twilight fades;
The sullen rain-drops, heavily,
In the dank, drooping hemlocks lie;
The fir-trees in the rounding park
Loom statelier through the gathering dark,
And reddening in the starless night
The tall church windows blaze with light.
The north wind whistles down the glades;
Let fall the curtains, drop the shades,
And, while the fire-light's glowing gloom
Casts fitful shadows through the room,
Gather around the ruddy blaze
To welcome in the holidays.
Behind the hills the twilight fades;
The sullen rain-drops, heavily,
In the dank, drooping hemlocks lie;
The fir-trees in the rounding park
Loom statelier through the gathering dark,
And reddening in the starless night
The tall church windows blaze with light.
The north wind whistles down the glades;
Let fall the curtains, drop the shades,
And, while the fire-light's glowing gloom
Casts fitful shadows through the room,
Gather around the ruddy blaze
To welcome in the holidays.
See Haidee's dark brown eyes grow bright
As diamonds in the dancing light,
To hear the merry bells that ring
In the tall steeples,—ding dong ding;
While Rena's songs sound sweet and rare
As music heard in mountain air,
And Ethel, with cheeks all abloom,
Goes dancing, dancing round the room,
Or softly lingers at my knee
To watch the wondrous Christmas Tree.
As diamonds in the dancing light,
To hear the merry bells that ring
In the tall steeples,—ding dong ding;
166
As music heard in mountain air,
And Ethel, with cheeks all abloom,
Goes dancing, dancing round the room,
Or softly lingers at my knee
To watch the wondrous Christmas Tree.
Sweet Christmas Eve! The holidays
May pass, the firelight's cheerful blaze
Die out, the little waltzing feet
To other mazy measures beat,
And other Christmas Trees may spread
Their fragrant branches o'er my head,
And fairy fruit for us may fall
In many a distant bower and hall,
And Santa Claus at Christmas tide
May down the roaring chimneys ride,
And chapel bells with solemn chime
Ring in the Christ-child's holy time,
And tell to all the wondering Earth
The mystic story of his birth;
But memory long shall fondly dwell
On this blithe eve at New Rochelle,
And fairer deem our Christmas Tree
Than all that have been or may be,
And keep the birthnight it embalms
Sweet as the breath of heavenly palms.
May pass, the firelight's cheerful blaze
Die out, the little waltzing feet
To other mazy measures beat,
And other Christmas Trees may spread
Their fragrant branches o'er my head,
And fairy fruit for us may fall
In many a distant bower and hall,
And Santa Claus at Christmas tide
May down the roaring chimneys ride,
And chapel bells with solemn chime
Ring in the Christ-child's holy time,
And tell to all the wondering Earth
The mystic story of his birth;
But memory long shall fondly dwell
On this blithe eve at New Rochelle,
And fairer deem our Christmas Tree
Than all that have been or may be,
And keep the birthnight it embalms
Sweet as the breath of heavenly palms.
December, I866.
| Poems by Sarah Helen Whitman | |