Holiday

Holidays are an important part of our culture. They are solemn, joyous days and merry folk festivities, or, on the contrary, a holiday just for a couple like Valentine’s Day. Poems like nothing else convey special holiday emotions and feelings from one person to another.

«A Friend’s Greeting» by Edgar Guest

I’d like to be the sort of friend
     that you have been to me;
I’d like to be the help that you’ve been
     always glad to be;
I’d like to mean as much to you
     each minute of the day
As you have meant, old friend of mine,
     to me along the way.

I’d like to do the big things
     and the splendid things for you,
To brush the gray out of your skies
     and leave them only blue;
I’d like to say the kindly things
     that I so oft have heard,
And feel that I could rouse your soul
     the way that mine you’ve stirred.

I’d like to give back the joy
     that you have given me,
Yet that were wishing you a need
     I hope will never be;
I’d like to make you feel
     as rich as I, who travel on
Undaunted in the darkest hours
     with you to lean upon.

I’m wishing at this Christmas time
     that I could but repay
A portion of the gladness
     that you’ve strewn along the way;
And could I have one wish this year,
     this only would it be:
I’d like to be the sort of friend
     that you have been to me.

***

«A Holiday» by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

The Wife
The house is like a garden,
The children are the flowers,
The gardener should come methinks
And walk among his bowers,
Oh! lock the door on worry
And shut your cares away,
Not time of year, but love and cheer,
Will make a holiday.

The Husband
Impossible! You women do not know
The toil it takes to make a business grow.
I cannot join you until very late,
So hurry home, nor let the dinner wait.

The Wife
The feast will be like Hamlet
Without a Hamlet part:
The home is but a house, dear,
Till you supply the heart.
The Xmas gift I long for
You need not toil to buy;
Oh! give me back one thing I lack –
The love-light in your eye.

The Husband
Of course I love you, and the children too.
Be sensible, my dear, it is for you
I work so hard to make my business pay.
There, now, run home, enjoy your holiday.

The Wife (turning)
He does not mean to wound me,
I know his heart is kind.
Alas! that man can love us
And be so blind, so blind.
A little time for pleasure,
A little time for play;
A word to prove the life of love
And frighten care away!
Tho’ poor my lot in some small cot
That were a holiday.

The Husband (musing)
She has not meant to wound me, nor to vex –
Zounds! but ’tis difficult to please the sex.
I’ve housed and gowned her like a very queen
Yet there she goes, with discontented mien.
I gave her diamonds only yesterday:
Some women are like that, do what you may.

***

«A Holiday Prayer» by Joanna Fuchs

I pray for you this holiday
 That all your dreams come true;
 I pray the Lord will bless your life
 All the New Year through.

I pray your holiday gives you all
 That you’ve been hoping for,
 Health, comfort, peace and love,
 These blessings and much more.

***

«A Nation’s Strength» by William Ralph Emerson

What makes a nation’s pillars high
And its foundations strong?
What makes it mighty to defy
The foes that round it throng?

It is not gold. Its kingdoms grand
Go down in battle shock;
Its shafts are laid on sinking sand,
Not on abiding rock.

Is it the sword? Ask the red dust
Of empires passed away;
The blood has turned their stones to rust,
Their glory to decay.

And is it pride? Ah, that bright crown
Has seemed to nations sweet;
But God has struck its luster down
In ashes at his feet.

Not gold but only men can make
A people great and strong;
Men who for truth and honor’s sake
Stand fast and suffer long.

Brave men who work while others sleep,
Who dare while others fly…
They build a nation’s pillars deep
And lift them to the sky.

***

«A Vacation Holiday» by Catherine Pulsifer

A vacation is a holiday
One in which to relax
A break from routine of everyday
With no work setbacks.

Our holidays we look forward to
We count down to the day
Working all year, this vacation is due
We can’t wait for work to go away.

So enjoy your holidays as they often go to fast
Make time to relax, recharge and have some fun
Leave thoughts of your work in the past
And don’t get too much sun!

***

«A Vampire Bit My Neck Last Night» by Kenn Nesbitt

A vampire bit my neck last night.
And, though it sounds insane,
some zombies chased me down the street
and tried to eat my brain.

A mummy shambled after me.
Godzilla stomped my face.
I nearly I got abducted by
an alien from space.

When Frankenstein attacked me
I escaped, but then almost
got tackled by a skeleton,
a werewolf, and a ghost.

A slimy blob engulfed me.
Then I woke up with a scream.
I’ve never been so overjoyed
to wake up from a dream.

Last night I learned a lesson;
if you want to keep your head,
don’t watch a scary movie
right before you go to bed.

***

«After Thanksgiving» by Kenn Nesbitt

It’s after Thanksgiving.
I’m full as can be.
I haven’t got room left
for even a pea.

I probably gobbled
too much at our feast.
I’m straining in pain and
my waistline’s increased.

I’m utterly glutted.
My stomach is stuffed.
My belly is bulging.
My tummy is puffed.

I’m totally bloated.
I’m huffing and puffing.
I guess it’s not smart to eat
nothing but stuffing.

***

«Alpine Holiday» by Robert William Service

He took the grade in second – quite a climb,
Dizzy and dangerous, yet how sublime!
The road went up and up; it curved around
The mountain and the gorge grew more profound.
He drove serenely, with no hint of haste;
And then she felt his arm go round her waist.

She shrank: she did not know him very well,
Being like her a guest at the hotel.
Nice, but a Frenchman. On his driving hand
He wore like benedicks a golden band . . .
Well, how could she with grace refuse a drive
So grand it made glad to be alive?

Yet now she heard him whisper in her ear:
“Don’t be afraid. With one hand I can steer,
With one arm hold you . . . Oh what perfect bliss!
Darling, please don’t refuse me just one kiss.
Here, nigh to Heaven, let is us rest awhile . . .
Nay, don’t resist – give me your lips, your smile . . .”

So there in that remote and dizzy place
He wrestled with her for a moment’s space,
Hearing her cry: “Oh please, please let me go!
Let me get out . . . You brute, release me! No, no,
NO!”
. . . In that ravine was found their burnt-out car –
Their bodies trapped and crisped into a char.

***

«At Christmas» by Edgar Guest

A man is at his finest
     towards the finish of the year;
He is almost what he should be
     when the Christmas season is here;
Then he’s thinking more of others
     than he’s thought the months before,
And the laughter of his children
     is a joy worth toiling for.
He is less a selfish creature than
     at any other time;
When the Christmas spirit rules him
     he comes close to the sublime.

When it’s Christmas man is bigger
     and is better in his part;
He is keener for the service
     that is prompted by the heart.
All the petty thoughts and narrow
     seem to vanish for awhile
And the true reward he’s seeking
     is the glory of a smile.
Then for others he is toiling and
     somehow it seems to me
That at Christmas he is almost
     what God wanted him to be.

If I had to paint a picture of a man
     I think I’d wait
Till he’d fought his selfish battles
     and had put aside his hate.
I’d not catch him at his labors
     when his thoughts are all of pelf,
On the long days and the dreary
     when he’s striving for himself.
I’d not take him when he’s sneering,
     when he’s scornful or depressed,
But I’d look for him at Christmas
     when he’s shining at his best.

Man is ever in a struggle
     and he’s oft misunderstood;
There are days the worst that’s in him
     is the master of the good,
But at Christmas kindness rules him
     and he puts himself aside
And his petty hates are vanquished
     and his heart is opened wide.
Oh, I don’t know how to say it,
     but somehow it seems to me
That at Christmas man is almost
     what God sent him here to be.

***

«Before The Ice Is In The Pools» by Emily Dickinson

Before the ice is in the pools—
Before the skaters go,
Or any check at nightfall
Is tarnished by the snow—

Before the fields have finished,
Before the Christmas tree,
Wonder upon wonder
Will arrive to me!

What we touch the hems of
On a summer’s day—
What is only walking
Just a bridge away—

That which sings so—speaks so—
When there’s no one here—
Will the frock I wept in
Answer me to wear?

***

«Candy Andy» by Kenn Nesbitt

Hello, my name is Andy.
I’m a fan of eating candy.
It’s delicious and it’s dandy,
and my favorite thing to eat.

When I want some sweets for eating,
I’ll be at your door repeating
that fantastic, famous greeting…
I’ll be shouting, “Trick or treat!”

I’ll be dressed up like a mummy,
out in search of something yummy,
like a chocolate bar or gummi.
I’ll be marching door-to-door.

And, as long as you have dishes
full of candy so delicious
it can satisfy my wishes,
I’ll keep coming back for more.

You might think I’m being sneaky,
or perhaps a little cheeky,
and some people say it’s freaky,
and they often ask me why…

And they tell me that it’s cheating
to be on their doorstep beating
on the front door, trick-or-treating,
in the middle of July.

***

«Chanukah Lights» by Philip M. Raskin

I KINDLED my eight little candles,
  My Chanukah-candles–and lo!
Fair visions and dreams half-forgotten
  To me came of years long ago.

I musingly gazed at my candles;
  Meseemed in their quivering flames
In golden, in fiery letters
  I read the old glorious names,

The names of our heroes immortal,
  The noble, the brave, and the true,
A battle-field saw I in vision
  Where many were conquered by few.

Where trampled in dust lay the mighty,
  Judea’s proud Syrian foe;
And Judas, the brave Maccabaeus,
  In front of his army I saw.

His eyes shone like bright stars of heaven,
  Like music rang out his strong voice:
“Brave comrades, we fought and we conquered,
  Now let us, in God’s name, rejoice!”

“We conquered–but know, O brave comrades,
  No triumph is due to the sword!
Remember our glorious watchword,
  ‘For People and Towns of the Lord!'”

He spoke, and from all the four corners
  An echo repeated each word;
The woods and the mountains re-echoed:
  “For People and Towns of the Lord!”

And swiftly the message spread, saying:
  “Judea, Judea is free,
Re-kindled the lamp in the Temple,
  Re-kindled each bosom with glee!”

My Chanukah-candles soon flickered,
  Around me was darkness of night;
But deep in my soul I felt shining
  A heavenly-glorious light.

***

«Child Holiday Poem» by Joanna Fuchs

My mom is cooking holiday treats;
 My dad is spending money;
 They think they’ve hidden all the gifts;
 It’s really pretty funny.

Now Mom and Dad are whispering;
 They imagine I don’t hear.
 I’m really all excited;
 It’s a happy time of year.

I’ve made my holiday gift list;
 Whatever I get, I’ll be glad
 To be a part of my family,
 And the best holiday I’ve had!

***

«Christmas Bells» by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

I heard the bells on Christmas Day
Their old, familiar carols play,
And wild and sweet
The words repeat
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

And thought how, as the day had come,
The belfries of all Christendom
Had rolled along
The unbroken song
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

Till ringing, singing on its way,
The world revolved from night to day,
A voice, a chime,
A chant sublime
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

Then from each black, accursed mouth
The cannon thundered in the South,
And with the sound
The carols drowned
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

It was as if an earthquake rent
The hearth-stones of a continent,
And made forlorn
The households born
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

And in despair I bowed my head;
“There is no peace on earth,” I said;
For hate is strong,
And mocks the song
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!”

Then pealed the bells more loud and deep:
“God is not dead, nor doth He sleep;
The Wrong shall fail,
The Right prevail,
With peace on earth, good-will to men.”

***

«Christmas Carol» by Sara Teasdale

The kings they came from out the south,

   All dressed in ermine fine;

They bore Him gold and chrysoprase,

   And gifts of precious wine.

 

The shepherds came from out the north,

   Their coats were brown and old;

They brought Him little new-born lambs—

   They had not any gold.

 

The wise men came from out the east,

   And they were wrapped in white;

The star that led them all the way

   Did glorify the night.

 

The angels came from heaven high,

   And they were clad with wings;

And lo, they brought a joyful song

   The host of heaven sings.

 

The kings they knocked upon the door,

   The wise men entered in,

The shepherds followed after them

   To hear the song begin.

 

The angels sang through all the night

   Until the rising sun,

But little Jesus fell asleep

   Before the song was done.

***

«Good King Wenceslas» by John Mason Neale

Good King Wenceslas look’d out,

    On the Feast of Stephen;

When the snow lay round about,

    Deep, and crisp, and even:

Brightly shone the moon that night,

    Though the frost was cruel,

When a poor man came in sight,

    Gath’ring winter fuel.

“Hither page and stand by me,

    If thou know’st it, telling,

Yonder peasant, who is he?

    Where and what his dwelling?”

“Sire, he lives a good league hence.

    Underneath the mountain;

Right against the forest fence,

    By Saint Agnes’ fountain.”

“Bring me flesh,and bring me wine,

    Bring me pine-logs hither:

Thouand I will see him dine,

    When we bear them thither.”

Page and monarch forth they went,

    Forth they went together;

Through the rudewind’s wild lament,

    And the bitter weather.

“Sire, the night is darker now,

    And the wind blows stronger;

Fails my heart, I know now how,

    I can go no longer.”

“Mark my footsteps, good my page;

    Tread thou in them boldly;

Thou shalt find the winter’s rage

    Freeze thy blood less coldly.”

In his master’s steps he trod,

    Where the snow lay dinted;

Heat was in the very sod

    Which the Saint had printed.

Therefore, Christian men, be sure,

    Wealth or rank possessing,

Ye who now will bless the poor,

    Shall yourselves find blessing.

***

«Halloween Is Nearly Here» by Kenn Nesbitt

Halloween is nearly here.
I’ve got my costume planned.
It’s sure to be the most horrific
outfit in the land.

If you should see me coming
you may scream and hide your head.
My get-up will, I guarantee,
fill every heart with dread.

My costume may cause nightmares.
Yes, my mask may stop your heart.
You might just shriek and wet yourself,
then squeamishly depart.

And yet, I won’t be dressing as
you might expect me to.
I will not be a vampire
or ghost that hollers “boo!”

I won’t look like a werewolf
or a goblin or a ghoul,
or even like a slimy blob
of deadly, dripping drool.

I will not be a zombie
or some other horrid creature.
No, this year I’ll be much, much worse…
I’m dressing as a teacher.

***

«Holiday Joy» by Julie Hebert

Today is but a holiday,
The best one I do think.
Hang the decor and bake the food,
It’s time to celebrate.

My favourite thing about this is,
All the family and friends.
Conversation feels like a vacation,
Get it all in before it ends.

Today is my favourite thing,
A holiday to enjoy.
Crafts and baking and decorating,
So many wonderful joys.

The best thing about this holiday,
Besides all those wonderful things.
I get to spend every minute with you,
While we talk, dance and even sing.

***

«Holidays» by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

The holiest of all holidays are those
Kept by ourselves in silence and apart;
The secret anniversaries of the heart,
When the full river of feeling overflows;–
The happy days unclouded to their close;
The sudden joys that out of darkness start
As flames from ashes; swift desires that dart
Like swallows singing down each wind that blows!
White as the gleam of a receding sail,
White as a cloud that floats and fades in air,
White as the whitest lily on a stream,
These tender memories are;–a fairy tale
Of some enchanted land we know not where,
But lovely as a landscape in a dream.

***

«Kriss Kringle» by Thomas Bailey Aldrich

Just as the moon was fading
Amid her misty rings,
And every stocking was stuffed
With childhood’s precious things,

Old Kriss Kringle looked around,
And saw on the elm-tree bough,
High hung, an oriole’s nest,
Lonely and empty now.

“Quite a stocking,” he laughed,
“Hung up there on a tree!
I didn’t suppose the birds
Expected a present from me!”

Then old Kriss Kringle, who loves
A joke as well as the best,
Dropped a handful of snowflakes
Into the oriole’s empty nest.

***

«Minstrels» by William Wordsworth

The minstrels played their Christmas tune
To-night beneath my cottage-eaves;
While, smitten by a lofty moon,
The encircling laurels, thick with leaves,
Gave back a rich and dazzling sheen,
That overpowered their natural green.

Through hill and valley every breeze
Had sunk to rest with folded wings:
Keen was the air, but could not freeze,
Nor check, the music of the strings;
So stout and hardy were the band
That scraped the chords with strenuous hand.

And who but listened?—till was paid
Respect to every inmate’s claim,
The greeting given, the music played
In honour of each household name,
Duly pronounced with lusty call,
And “Merry Christmas” wished to all.

***

«My Christmas Travel Plan» by Kenn Nesbitt

I’m flying south for Christmas
to avoid the winter storms.
I’m heading to the beaches
where the weather’s always warm.

They say we shouldn’t travel now.
At least that’s what I’m told.
But, even so, I have to go;
it’s getting much too cold.

But you don’t need to worry.
I assure you I’ll be fine.
I think that you’ll feel better
once you’ve heard this plan of mine.

I won’t be getting on a plane;
that isn’t safe, I’ve heard.
I’m flying south for Christmas,
and I’m glad that I’m a bird.

***

«Online Christmas» by Kenn Nesbitt

We’re staying home this Christmas.
We won’t shop at the mall.
We won’t go to department stores
or anywhere at all.

We’ll do our shopping all online
this year and, I assume,
we’re having Christmas dinner
with our relatives on Zoom.

We’ll have a celebration too
with fun and festive cheer.
But that will be on FaceTime, Skype,
and Google Meet this year.

We heard that even Santa Claus
will celebrate this way,
and won’t deliver presents
in his bright-red Santa sleigh.

But there’s no need for us to fret;
we won’t be out of luck.
He said he’ll send our presents
in a brown delivery truck.

***

«Our Holiday Shopping» by Kenn Nesbitt

Our parents went holiday shopping online.
They ordered the presents and thought it was fine.
But, then, they forgot to turn off the computer,
and that’s when the baby, who couldn’t be cuter,
decided to play with the keyboard awhile.
She climbed up and pushed a few keys with a smile.

She bought a new blanket, a book, and a binkie,
a bottle, some blocks, and a sled, and a Slinky.
She ordered a dozen new puzzles and balls,
plus hundreds of teddy bears, diapers, and dolls.
And when she was done clicking keys for the day,
she giggled and got down and waddled away.

The cat came along and walked over the keys
and ordered some cat toys and treatments for fleas.
Our puppy jumped up and bought toys he could chew,
plus sweaters, and leashes, and tennis balls too.
And, lastly, our hamster sat down on the mouse,
and clicked to have everything shipped to our house.

The presents arrived just a day or two later.
I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything greater!
The drivers arrived and, before they were gone,
left thousands of packages out on our lawn.
It’s all so exciting, and will be until
our parents receive their next credit card bill.

***

«Ring Out, Wild Bells» by Alfred Tennyson

Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky,
The flying cloud, the frosty light;
The year is dying in the night;
Ring out, wild bells, and let him die.

Ring out the old, ring in the new,
Ring, happy bells, across the snow:
The year is going, let him go;
Ring out the false, ring in the true.

Ring out the grief that saps the mind,
For those that here we see no more,
Ring out the feud of rich and poor,
Ring in redress to all mankind.

Ring out a slowly dying cause,
And ancient forms of party strife;
Ring in the nobler modes of life,
With sweeter manners, purer laws.

Ring out the want, the care the sin,
The faithless coldness of the times;
Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes,
But ring the fuller minstrel in.

Ring out false pride in place and blood,
The civic slander and the spite;
Ring in the love of truth and right,
Ring in the common love of good.

Ring out old shapes of foul disease,
Ring out the narrowing lust of gold;
Ring out the thousand wars of old,
Ring in the thousand years of peace.

Ring in the valiant man and free,
The larger heart, the kindlier hand;
Ring out the darkness of the land,
Ring in the Christ that is to be.

***

«Special Holidays» by Joanna Fuchs

We’re thinking of you this time of year,
 Wishing you happiness, joy, and cheer.
 May all your days be warm and bright,
 And your nights enhanced by holiday light.

Enjoy your delectable holiday foods,
 As parties and gifts create holiday moods.
 Favorite people play a meaningful part,
 While treasured rituals warm your heart.

You are special to us in many ways,
 So we wish you Happy Holidays!

***

«Star Of The East» by Eugene Field

Star of the East, that long ago
Brought wise men on their way
Where, angels singing to and fro,
The Child of Bethlehem lay—
Above that Syrian hill afar
Thou shinest out to-night, O Star!

Star of the East, the night were drear
But for the tender grace
That with thy glory comes to cheer
Earth’s loneliest, darkest place;
For by that charity we see
Where there is hope for all and me.

Star of the East! show us the way
In wisdom undefiled
To seek that manger out and lay
Our gifts before the child—
To bring our hearts and offer them
Unto our King in Bethlehem!

***

«Thanksgiving» by Edgar Guest

Gettin’ together to smile an’ rejoice,
An’ eatin’ an’ laughin’ with folks of your choice;
An’ kissin’ the girls an’ declarin’ that they
Are growin’ more beautiful day after day;
Chattin’ an’ braggin’ a bit with the men,
Buildin’ the old family circle again;
Livin’ the wholesome an’ old-fashioned cheer,
Just for awhile at the end of the year.

Greetings fly fast as we crowd through the door
And under the old roof we gather once more
Just as we did when the youngsters were small;
Mother’s a little bit grayer, that’s all.
Father’s a little bit older, but still
Ready to romp an’ to laugh with a will.
Here we are back at the table again
Tellin’ our stories as women an’ men.

Bowed are our heads for a moment in prayer;
Oh, but we’re grateful an’ glad to be there.
Home from the east land an’ home from the west,
Home with the folks that are dearest an’ best.
Out of the sham of the cities afar
We’ve come for a time to be just what we are.
Here we can talk of ourselves an’ be frank,
Forgettin’ position an’ station an’ rank.

Give me the end of the year an’ its fun
When most of the plannin’ an’ toilin’ is done;
Bring all the wanderers home to the nest,
Let me sit down with the ones I love best,
Hear the old voices still ringin’ with song,
See the old faces unblemished by wrong,
See the old table with all of its chairs
An’ I’ll put soul in my Thanksgivin’ prayers.

***

«Thanksgiving» by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

We walk on starry fields of white
And do not see the daisies;
For blessings common in our sight
We rarely offer praises.
We sigh for some supreme delight
To crown our lives with splendor,
And quite ignore our daily store
Of pleasures sweet and tender.

Our cares are bold and push their way
Upon our thought and feeling.
They hang about us all the day,
Our time from pleasure stealing.
So unobtrusive many a joy
We pass by and forget it,
But worry strives to own our lives
And conquers if we let it.

There’s not a day in all the year
But holds some hidden pleasure,
And looking back, joys oft appear
To brim the past’s wide measure.
But blessings are like friends, I hold,
Who love and labor near us.
We ought to raise our notes of praise
While living hearts can hear us.

Full many a blessing wears the guise
Of worry or of trouble.
Farseeing is the soul and wise
Who knows the mask is double.
But he who has the faith and strength
To thank his God for sorrow
Has found a joy without alloy
To gladden every morrow.

We ought to make the moments notes
Of happy, glad Thanksgiving;
The hours and days a silent phrase
Of music we are living.
And so the theme should swell and grow
As weeks and months pass o’er us,
And rise sublime at this good time,
A grand Thanksgiving chorus.

***

«The Day of Days» by Edgar A. Guest

A year is filled with glad events:
The best is Christmas day,
But every holiday presents
Its special round of play,
And looking back on boyhood now
And all the charms it knew,
One day, above the rest, somehow,
Seems brightest in review.
That day was finest, I believe;
Though many grown-ups scoff,
When mother said that we could leave
Our shoes and stockings off.

Through all the pleasant days of spring
We begged to know once more
The joy of barefoot wandering
And quit the shoes we wore;
But always mother shook her head
And answered with a smile:
“It is too soon, too soon,” she said.
“Wait just a little while.”
Then came that glorious day at last
When mother let us know
That fear of taking cold was past
And we could barefoot go.

Though Christmas day meant much to me,
And eagerly I’d try
The first boy on the street to be
The Fourth day of July,
I think: the summit of my joy
Was reached that happy day
Each year, when, as a barefoot boy,
I hastened out to play.
Could I return to childhood fair,
That day I think I’d choose
When mother said I needn’t wear
My stockings and my shoes.

***

«The Holidays» by Jane Taylor

“Ah! don’t you remember, ’tis almost December,
And soon will the holidays come;
Oh, ’twill be so funny, I’ve plenty of money,
I’ll buy me a sword and a drum. ”

Thus said little Harry, unwilling to tarry,
Impatient from school to depart;
But we shall discover, this holiday lover
Knew little what was in his heart.

For when on returning, he gave up his learning,
Away from his sums and his books,
Though playthings surrounded, and sweetmeats abounded,
Chagrin still appear’d in his looks.

Though first they delighted, his toys were now slighted,
And thrown away out of his sight;
He spent every morning in stretching and yawning,
Yet went to bed weary at night.

He had not that treasure which really makes pleasure,
(A secret discover’d by few).
You’ll take it for granted, more playthings he wanted;
Oh naught was something to do.

We must have employment to give us enjoyment
And pass the time cheerfully away;
And study and reading give pleasure, exceeding
The pleasures of toys and of play.

To school now returning­to study and learning
With eagerness Harry applied;
He felt no aversion to books or exertion,
Nor yet for the holidays sigh’d.

***

«The Snow Man» by Wallace Stevens

One must have a mind of winter
To regard the frost and the boughs
Of the pine-trees crusted with snow;

And have been cold a long time
To behold the junipers shagged with ice,
The spruces rough in the distant glitter

Of the January sun; and not to think
Of any misery in the sound of the wind,
In the sound of a few leaves,

Which is the sound of the land
Full of the same wind
That is blowing in the same bare place

For the listener, who listens in the snow,
And, nothing himself, beholds
Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.

***

«Toward the Winter Solstice» by Timothy Steele

Although the roof is just a story high,
It dizzies me a little to look down.
I lariat-twirl the cord of Christmas lights
And cast it to the weeping birch’s crown;
A dowel into which I’ve screwed a hook
Enables me to reach, lift, drape, and twine
The cord among the boughs so that the bulbs
Will accent the tree’s elegant design.

Friends, passing home from work or shopping, pause
And call up commendations or critiques.
I make adjustments. Though a potpourri
Of Muslims, Christians, Buddhists, Jews, and Sikhs,
We all are conscious of the time of year;
We all enjoy its colorful displays
And keep some festival that mitigates
The dwindling warmth and compass of the days.

Some say that L.A. doesn’t suit the Yule,
But UPS vans now like magi make
Their present-laden rounds, while fallen leaves
Are gaily resurrected in their wake;                          
The desert lifts a full moon from the east
And issues a dry Santa Ana breeze,
And valets at chic restaurants will soon
Be tending flocks of cars and SUVs.

And as the neighborhoods sink into dusk
The fan palms scattered all across town stand
More calmly prominent, and this place seems
A vast oasis in the Holy Land.
This house might be a caravansary,
The tree a kind of cordial fountainhead
Of welcome, looped and decked with necklaces
And ceintures of green, yellow, blue, and red.

Some wonder if the star of Bethlehem
Occurred when Jupiter and Saturn crossed;
It’s comforting to look up from this roof
And feel that, while all changes, nothing’s lost,
To recollect that in antiquity
The winter solstice fell in Capricorn
And that, in the Orion Nebula,
From swirling gas, new stars are being born.

***

«We Bought A Lot Of Candy Bars» by Kenn Nesbitt

We bought a lot of candy bars.
We thought it would be neat
to have a ton for all the kids
who came to trick-or-treat.

We bought them early in the month
when they were all on sale.
We dragged the bags in from the car
and set them on the scale.

The candy weighed a hundred pounds!
I’m sure we got enough.
In fact, we may have had too much
of all that yummy stuff.

It wouldn’t hurt to just eat one,
or two, or three, or four.
We bought so much that we could
even eat a dozen more.

So every day we had a few;
a minuscule amount.
How many? I can’t say for sure.
I wasn’t keeping count.

Our pile grew smaller every day
by ten, fifteen, or twenty.
But, still, it didn’t matter.
We were certain we had plenty.

When Halloween arrived we checked
the candy situation,
and found that we had given in
to way too much temptation.

A single bar was all we had.
We’d eaten all the rest.
So, if our lights are off tonight,
I think that’s for the best.

***

«When the Year Grows Old» by Edna St. Vincent Millay

I cannot but remember
  When the year grows old—
October—November—
  How she disliked the cold!

She used to watch the swallows
  Go down across the sky,
And turn from the window
  With a little sharp sigh.

And often when the brown leaves
  Were brittle on the ground,
And the wind in the chimney
  Made a melancholy sound,

She had a look about her
  That I wish I could forget—
The look of a scared thing
  Sitting in a net!

Oh, beautiful at nightfall
  The soft spitting snow!
And beautiful the bare boughs
  Rubbing to and fro!

But the roaring of the fire,
  And the warmth of fur,
And the boiling of the kettle
  Were beautiful to her!

I cannot but remember
  When the year grows old—
October—November—
  How she disliked the cold!

***

«Wonder and Joy» by Robinson Jeffers

The things that one grows tired of—O, be sure
They are only foolish artificial things!
Can a bird ever tire of having wings?
And I, so long as life and sense endure,
(Or brief be they!) shall nevermore inure
My heart to the recurrence of the springs,
Of gray dawns, the gracious evenings,
The infinite wheeling stars. A wonder pure
Must ever well within me to behold
Venus decline; or great Orion, whose belt
Is studded with three nails of burning gold,
Ascend the winter heaven. Who never felt
This wondering joy may yet be good or great:
But envy him not: he is not fortunate.