For Christmas

Now not a window small or big

But wears a wreath of holly sprig;

Nor any shop too poor to show

Its spray of pine or mistletoe.

Now city airs are spicy-sweet

With Christmas trees along each street,

Green spruce and fir whose boughs still hold

Their tindel balls and fruits of gold.

Now postmen pass in threes or fours

Like bent, blue-coated Santa Claus.

Now people hurry to and fro

With little girls and boys in tow,

And not a child but keeps some trace

Of Christmas secrets in his face.