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 | Drifted in |  |
A roly-poly uncouth old man,
With gray beard growing on its own plan,
And gray eyes twinkling through all he said,
And gray hair fringing a bright bald head,
And gray clothes seldom the brushes knew
(Indeed there was dust in its primal hue),
And gray voice, also, as one might say,
Here told some news of one Christmas day.
(I know not whether it be a crime,
To mar his story with rhythm and rhyme:)
With gray beard growing on its own plan,
And gray eyes twinkling through all he said,
And gray hair fringing a bright bald head,
And gray clothes seldom the brushes knew
(Indeed there was dust in its primal hue),
And gray voice, also, as one might say,
Here told some news of one Christmas day.
(I know not whether it be a crime,
To mar his story with rhythm and rhyme:)
| Drifted in | |