He crouches, and buries his face on his knees,
And hides in the dark of his hair;
For he cannot look up to the storm-smitten trees,
Or think of the loneliness there--
Of the loss and the loneliness there.

The wallaroos grope through the tufts of the grass,
And turn to their coverts for fear;
But he sits in the ashes and lets them pass
Where the boomerangs sleep with the spear--
With the nullah, the sling, and the spear.

Uloola, behold him! The thunder that breaks
On the tops of the rocks with the rain,

He comes, — he comes, — the Frost Spirit comes! You may trace his footsteps now
On the naked woods and the blasted fields and the brown hill's withered brow.
He has smitten the leaves of the gray old trees where their pleasant green came forth,
And the winds, which follow wherever he goes, have shaken them down to earth.

He comes, — he comes, — the Frost Spirit comes! from the frozen Labrador,
From the icy bridge of the Northern seas, which the white bear wanders o'er,
Where the fisherman's sail is stiff with ice, and the luckless forms below

He comes in the night! He comes in the night!
He softly, silently comes;
While the little brown heads on the pillows so white
Are dreaming of bugles and drums.
He cuts through the snow like a ship through the foam,
While the white flakes around him whirl;
Who tells him I know not, but he findeth the home
Of each good little boy and girl.

His sleigh it is long, and deep, and wide;
It will carry a host of things
While dozens of drums hang over the side,
With the sticks sticking under the strings.

He came to his love's window at the dead of the night.
He called her his jewel, his own heart's delight.
"Now since you've shot the arrow you're the one who can cure,
And if you won't have me I'll die at your door.
And it's oh, my hard fortune."

"Begone, little drummer," this fair one did say,
"Would I be so mean as to marry with thee?
My father's a squire of a high degree
And I am his daughter and heiress to be,
And it's oh, my hard fortune!"

He turned to the door and he bade her farewell,

He came to be The Light,
And so it was not strange
A blazing star should pencil out his path
As Heaven unfurled its glory
On the night!

Wise kings came from afar!
Could aught more fitting be
Than kneeling sovereigns to greet
The King of Kings—sweet Baby
Of their star?

With staffs, and sandal-shod,
The shepherds came to search;
Such gentle men—it was not strange that they
Should find in Bethlehem
The Lamb of God!

He came to be The Light,
And so it was not strange
A blazing star should pencil out his path

He came not as the princes born to rule,
But humbly, as the son of pioneers;
Like them, of stern necessity the tool,
Heir to their solitude, their need, their tears.
Unschooled, unprepossessing, long unwanted
By those he offered constantly to serve,
Ill-starred in love, in commerce, still undaunted
He grew, though slighted, steadfast to deserve.
Little of grace or comeliness endearing,
Nothing of wiles had he to smooth his way;
But strength, which first from deep woods wrenched his clearing,
His birthright was, and sunlike brought his day.

He came all so still
Where His mother was,
As dew in April
That falleth on the grass.

He came all so still
Where His mother lay,
As dew in April
That falleth on the spray.

He came all so still
To His mother's bower,
As dew in April
That falleth on the flower.

Mother and maiden
Was never none but she!
Well might such a lady
God's mother be.

He always comes on market days,
And holds balloons — a lovely bunch —
And in the market square he stays,
And never seems to think of lunch.

They're red and purple, blue and green,
And when it is a sunny day
Tho' carts and people get between
You see them shining far away.

And some are big and some are small,
All tied together with a string,
And if there is a wind at all

Where wild flowers were and rippling grass,
I chanced upon a country lass;
" Was never lovelier home, " I said.
She hung her head, blushed very red,
Then raised her eyes, as maidens will, —
" My heart, my heart lives over the hill. "

So fair she was, and so afraid,
I could not quiz the little maid;
So over hilltop must I ride
To see what could be on the other side.
Her words went, too, as sweet words will, —
" My heart, my heart lives over the hill. "

I crossed the hill, looked everywhere,

Having crossed the threshold,
you leave your house to itself.

You pass the end of the fence
and make all distance near,
and nearness distant.
The slope and all you loved
are like a face in the past.
You yield to memory.
You scale mysterious mountains.
You climb the castle of the dead
and forget your losses.
You come to a valley,
and you feel that terror within you
when everything is memory
and you can't save yourself
and there are no thresholds