Page:The Soul of a Century.djvu/36



Hail you wondrous Christmas Eve, You holiday of myth, What varied gifts you bring each one To recollect you with?

To the master, Christmas bread, Fodder to his cattle, To the rooster, garlic spread, Peas to hens which prattle.

To the fruit-trees in the grove Bones from the repast, Gold reflections on the wall To him who keeps the fast.

Oh, I am a youthful maid With heart as yet untaken, In my restless, care-free mind Other thoughts awaken.

Yonder, where the forest ends And the sluice-gate forms a gap, Venerable willows stand Each crowned with a snowy cap.

One of these, a gnarled old tree Wearily is nodding Downward, where beneath the ice The cold blue lake is plodding.

There, they say, when midnight comes And the moon shines bright above, Within the waters’ depth appears A maiden’s future love.

Midnight does not frighten me, I scoff at superstition, With an axe I’ll chop the ice And fulfill my mission.

Deep into the icy waves I’ll gaze with hopeful eyes, My destined lover to behold Where his image mirrored lies.