Classic Poem

( ON CHRISTMAS EVE. )

H E will see sweet Stockings, cunning and new,
Warm in scarlet, and dainty in white —
Stockings that never have crept in a shoe —
Waiting his morning's enchanted light.

And other glad Stockings, that he should know —
Grown larger, perhaps, than they were last year! —
In many a pretty, half-sleepy row
They wonder, no doubt, if he is near!

This Saint of the children, who loves them so,
Fairily filling each color'd space,
Will touch clear dreams with his kiss — and go
With tears, I think, in his tender face.

Ah, spite of his furs, he will shiver, I fear,
At the thought of some Stockings, bright and small,
Whose curious looks are no longer here,
Awake for him, by the lonesome wall!

Oh, you whose little hands reach no more
Toward his gray, kind beard in their dimpled play,
Whose little feet pass'd through the great, dim Door,
With never a step nor a sound, away;

Have you found Another, who lights with love
His Birthday Tree for your charmed eyes?
Do you see in its branches the snow-white Dove?
Is it fair with the flowering fruit of the skies?