Nay, no closed doors for me,
But open doors and open hearts and glee
To welcome young and old.
Dimmest and brightest month am I;
My short days end, my lengthening days begin;
What matters more or less sun in the sky
When all is sun within?
[December begins making a wreath as he sings.]
Ivy and privet, dark as night,
I weave with hips and haws a cheerful show,
And holly for a beauty and delight,
And milky mistletoe.
While high above them all I set
Yew twigs and Christmas roses pure and pale;
Then Spring her snowdrop and her violet
May keep, so sweet and frail;
May keep each merry singing bird,
Of all her happy birds that singing build:
For I’ve a carol which some shepherds heard
Once in a wintry field.
