Page:Our American Holidays - Christmas.djvu/169

 Rh  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.





ANON

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, 