Classic Poem

“T HE Saint of Christmas leaves his charméd treasures
Only in homes where there is gold to buy.
What though small voices ask for childish pleasures,
Among the poor—he makes them no reply.

“Ah well, his great close furs shut out their crying;
He can not drive in narrow streets, we know,
Or find his way to hearths in darkness lying”—
A woman thought, and look'd into the snow.

When, greener than all Springs can make their greenness,
A giant Tree grew in the freezing air,
And from the far sky's beautiful sereneness
Strange shapes of wondrous calmness gather'd there.

Some, through their Peace, show'd dimly the scarr'd faces
That fell, in moldering battle-pits, away:
These brought fair fruits from ever-shining places,
That children of dead soldiers might be gay.

Next, shadows of worn living mothers slowly—
From the thick night below—came, sad to see,
And, with a tenderness most sweet and holy,
Hung pretty toys on the enchanted Tree.

Then, as a dove, a radiance descended,
And show'd these children of the poor, the dead,
Kneeling beneath two bleeding hands extended
With Christ's dear blessing for each little head.