For me, the smiles that are akin to tears,
For me, the frost and snows of many years,
When Christmas comes.
For thee, the twinkling candles bright and gay,
For me, the purple shadows and the grey,
When Christmas comes.
For thee, the friends that greet thee at the door,
For me, the faces I shall see no more,
When Christmas comes.
But ah, for both of us the mystic star
That leadeth back to Bethlehem afar,
When Christmas comes.
For both of us the child they saw of old,
That evermore his mother's arms enfold,
When Christmas comes.
THE OPAL MONTH
Now cometh October--a nut-brown maid,
Who in robes of crimson and gold arrayed
Hath taken the king's highway!
On the world she smiles--but to me it seems
Her eyes are misty with mid-summer dreams,
Or memories of the May.
Opals agleam in the dusk of her hair
Flash their hearts of fire and colours rare
As she dances gaily by--
Yet she sighs for each empty swinging nest,
And she tenderly holds against her breast
A belated butterfly.
The crickets sing no more to the stars--
The spiders no more put up silver bars
To entangle silken wings;
But the quail pipes low in the rusted corn,
And here and there--both at night and at morn--
A lonely robin still sings.
Pages:
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29