WHEN CHRISTMAS COMES

For thee, my small one—­trinkets and new toys,
The wine of life and all its keenest joys,
  When Christmas comes. 
For me, the broken playthings of the past
That in my folded hands I still hold fast,
  When Christmas comes.

For thee, fair hopes of all that yet may be,
And tender dreams of sweetest mystery,
  When Christmas comes. 
For thee, the future in a golden haze,
For me, the memory of some bygone days,
  When Christmas comes.

For thee, the things that lightly come and go,
For thee, the holly and the mistletoe,
  When Christmas comes. 
For me, the smiles that are akin to tears,
For me, the frost and snows of many years,
  When Christmas comes.

For thee, the twinkling candles bright and gay,
For me, the purple shadows and the grey,
  When Christmas comes. 
For thee, the friends that greet thee at the door,
For me, the faces I shall see no more,
  When Christmas comes.

But ah, for both of us the mystic star
That leadeth back to Bethlehem afar,
  When Christmas comes. 
For both of us the child they saw of old,
That evermore his mother’s arms enfold,
  When Christmas comes.

THE OPAL MONTH

Now cometh October—­a nut-brown maid,
Who in robes of crimson and gold arrayed
  Hath taken the king’s highway! 
On the world she smiles—­but to me it seems
Her eyes are misty with mid-summer dreams,
  Or memories of the May.

Opals agleam in the dusk of her hair
Flash their hearts of fire and colours rare
  As she dances gaily by—­
Yet she sighs for each empty swinging nest,
And she tenderly holds against her breast
  A belated butterfly.

The crickets sing no more to the stars—­
The spiders no more put up silver bars
  To entangle silken wings;
But the quail pipes low in the rusted corn,
And here and there—­both at night and at morn—­
  A lonely robin still sings.

A spice-laden breeze of the south is blent
With perfumed winds from the Orient
  And they weave o’er her a spell,
For nun-like she goeth now, still and sweet—­
And while mists like incense curl at her feet,
  She lingers her beads to tell.

NOCTURNE

Infold us with thy peace, dear moon-lit night,
  And let thy silver silence wrap us round
Till we forget the city’s dazzling light,
  The city’s ceaseless sound.

Here where the sand lies white upon the shore,
  And little velvet-fingered breezes blow,
Dear sea, thy world-old wonder-song once more
  Sing to us e’er we go.

Give us thy garnered sweets, short summer hour: 
  Perfume of rose, and balm of sun-steeped pine;
Scent from the lily’s cup and horned flower,
  Where bees have drained the wine.