Page:Our American Holidays - Christmas.djvu/256

228  Who is it sits in that high-backed chair, Quaintly in ruff and patch arrayed, With a mockery gay of a stately air As she rustles the folds of her old brocade,— Merriest heart at the masquerade? Ah, but the picture is passing fast Back to the darkness from which it strayed— ’Tis only a ghost of a Christmas Past.

Who is it whirls in a ball-room’s glare, Her soft white hand on my shoulder laid, Like a radiant lily, tall and fair, While the violins in the corner played The wailing strains of the Serenade? Oh, lovely vision, too sweet to last— E’en now my fancy it will evade— ’Tis only a ghost of a Christmas Past,

Rosamond! look not so dismayed, All of my heart, dear love, thou hast Jealous, beloved? Of a shade?— ’Tis only a ghost of a Christmas Past. 



Between the moonlight and the fire In winter twilights long ago, 