Page:Our American Holidays - Christmas.djvu/169

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     These the deep, tender records,
       Sacred in all their meetness,
     That, wakening purest fancies,
       Soften us with their sweetness;
As, gathered where flickering fagots burn,
We welcome the holy season's return.



In the rush of the merry morning,
  When the red burns through the gray,
And the wintry world lies waiting
  For the glory of the day;
Then we hear a fitful rushing
  Just without upon the stair,
See two white phantoms coming,
  Catch the gleam of sunny hair.

Are they Christmas fairies stealing
  Rows of little socks to fill?
Are they angels floating hither
  With their message of good-will?
What sweet spell are these elves weaving,
  As like larks they chirp and sing?
Are these palms of peace from heaven
  That these lovely spirits bring?

Rosy feet upon the threshold,
  Eager faces peeping through,