Wind in the north-east; snow in wagon-loads;
Good sleighing everywhere on all the roads.
Family healthy, sensible, and pleasant,
And each one got the proper Christmas-present.
(At least it seems so, for they all act suited,
And Santa Claus's taste hasn't been disputed.)
Our family room is filled with tasty mixings,
Of evergreens and other woman-fixings;
The open grate makes things look rich and mellow,
With good hard coals the fire has painted yellow;
Pictures peep from the walls, with thought all through them,
That set me studying every time I view them;
There's certain books upon the centre-table
That say what I'd have said if I'd been able;
And, measuring up this room with honest style,
'Tisn't a bad place to be in for a while.

And so I sit here, thinking, musing, dreaming,
About the world and all its curious scheming,
And, full of certainty-begotten doubt,
Wondering what this life is all about
(From all that I can learn I'm not to blame,
For wiser men have often done the same).

We went a mile or two, last night, to see
The decorations on a Christmas-tree;
I spied, hung on that sapling's gilded arms,
Things that would buy a couple good-sized farms;
And just upon our way home, I should guess
We met some fifty people, more or less,
Who needed, to make passable their days,
A decent share of what those farms would raise.

But here's the question: should those ill-to-do
Deprive rich people of their comforts too?
Because some luckless people lack for bread,
Must others' minds and fancies go unfed?
It's quite a puzzle, which I don't know whether
My clumsy mind knows how to put together;
But one thing's sure: wants satisfied wants breed —
The more folks get, the more they seem to need.
Then, one man lives on what would starve another.
And what is joy for you might kill your brother.