In the ghostly light I’m sitting, musing of long dead Decembers,
While the fire-clad shapes are flitting in and out among the embers
On my hearthstone in mad races, and I marvel, for in seeming
I can dimly see the faces and the scenes of which I’m dreaming.
O golden Christmas days of yore!
In sweet anticipation
I lived their joys for days before
Their glorious realization;
And on the dawn
Of Christmas morn
My childish heart was knocking
A wild tattoo,
As ‘twould break through,
As I unhung my stocking.
Each simple gift that came to hand,
How marvelous I thought it!
A treasure straight from wonderland,
For Santa Claus had brought it.
And at my cries
Of glad surprise
The others all came flocking
To share my glee
And view with me
The contents of the stocking.
Years sped—I left each well-loved scene
In Northern wilds to roam,
And there, ‘mid tossing pine-trees green,
I made myself a home.
We numbered three
And blithe were we,
At adverse fortune mocking,
And Christmas-tide
By our fireside
Found hung the baby’s stocking.
Alas! within our home to-night
No sweet young voice is ringing,
And through its silent rooms no light,
Free, childish step is springing.
The wild winds rave
O’er baby’s grave
Where plumy pines are rocking
And crossed at rest
On marble breast
The hands that filled my stocking.
With misty eyes but steady hand
I raise my Christmas chalice;
Here’s to the children of the land
In cabin or in palace;
May each one hold
The key of gold,
The gates of glee unlocking,
And hands be found
The whole world round
To fill the Christmas stocking.
