Mom Read Me A Christmas Poem

Christmas has always been one of my favorite times of the year. I love the carols, the snow, the cold wind blowing,  hot cocoa with tiny marshmellows, pumpkin pie, figgy pudding, decorating the christmas tree, the presents, the family and friends...

I'd love it when the kids asked me to read them a Christmas poem or story. We'd snuggle up together on the sofa or sit on the floor around the fireplace, and the adventure would begin...

In the far off Polar seas,

Far beyond the Hebrides,

Where the icebergs, towering high,

Seem to pierce the wintry sky,

And the fur-clad Esquimaux,

Glides in sledges o'er the snow,

Dwells St. Nick, the merry wight,

Patron saint of Christmas night.

Solid walls of massive ice,

Bearing many a quaint device,

Flanked by graceful turrets twain,

Clear as clearest porcelain,

Bearing at a lofty height

Christ's pure cross in simple white,

Carven with surprising art

From an iceberg's crystal heart.

Here St. Nick, in royal state,

Dwells, until December late

Clips the days at either end,

And the nights at each extend;

Then, with his attendant sprites,

Scours the earth on wintry nights,

Bringing home, in well filled hands,

Children's gifts from many lands.

Here are whistles, tops and toys,

Meant to gladden little boys;

Skates and sleds that soon will glide

O're the ice or steep hill-side,

Here are dolls with flaxen curls,

Sure to charm the little girls;

Christmas books with pictures gay,

For this welcome holiday.

In the court the reindeer wait;

Filled the sledge with costly freight.

As the first faint shadow falls,

Promptly from his icy halls

Steps St. Nick, and grasps the rein:

Straight his courses scour the plain,

And afar, in measured time,

Sounds the sleigh-bells' silver chime.

Like an arrow from the bow

Speed the reindeer o'er the snow.

Onward! Now the loaded sleigh

Skirts the shores of Hudson's Bay.

Onward, till the stunted tree

Gains a loftier majesty,

And the curling smoked-wreaths rise

Under less inclement sides.

Built upon a hill-side steep

Lies a city wrapt in sleep.

Up and down the lonely steet

Sleepy watchmen pace their beat.

Little heeds them Santa Claus;

Not for him are human laws.

With a leap he leaves the ground,

Scales the chimney at a bound.

Five small stockings hang below;

Five small stockings in a row.

From his pocket blithe St.Nick

Fills the waiting stockings quick;

Some with sweetmeats, some with toys,

Gifts for girls, and gifts for boys,

Mounts the chimney like a bird,

And the bells are once more heard.

Santa Claus! Good Christmas saint,

In whose heart no selfish taint

Findeth place, some homes there be

Where no stockings wait for thee,

Homes where sad young faces wear

Painful marks of Want and Care,

And the Christmas morning brings

No fair hope of better things.

Can you not some crumbs bestow

On these children seeped in woe;

Steal a single look of care

Which their sad young faces wear;

From your overflowing store

Give to then those hearts are sore?

No sad eyes should greet the morn

When the infant christ was born.

Horatio Alger