Classic Poem

Ah! dear old Christmas-tides of long ago.
Around the creaking roof-tops roared the blast:
The streets and hills and fields were draped in snow;
Across the ice the glittering skates shot past.
Youth was not dead!
Bright green and red
The holly-leaves and holly-berries gleamed.
The merry church-bells rang;
Our young hearts laughed and sang;
Of joyous years to come our spirits dreamed.

But years to come bring trouble and despair.
If childhood brings its simple dream of joy
Youth brings love's holier dream, a dream more fair
Than dreams which haunt the bright heart of the boy.
But all dreams melt
As soon as felt, —
They fade into the mist of things unseen.
Youth's dream of love, alas!
Must likewise pale and pass:
Sweet love must be as if it had not been.

And yet — the holly-berries still are bright;
The bells chime merrily across the snow:
A thousand Christmas-trees will give delight,
Green as the Christmas-trees of long ago.
Why are we sad?
The young are glad;
They dance around the fir-tree hand in hand.
Outside, white miles of snow:
Inside, the red fire's glow
And children's smiles and dreams of fairy-land.