Her Portrait

Were I an artist, Lydia, I
  Would paint you as you merit,
Not as my eyes, but dreams, descry;
  Not in the flesh, but spirit.

The canvas I would paint you on
  Should be a bit of heaven;
My brush, a sunbeam; pigments, dawn
  And night and starry even.

Your form and features to express,
  Likewise your soul’s chaste whiteness,
I’d take the primal essences
  Of darkness and of brightness.

I’d take pure night to paint your hair;
  Stars for your eyes; and morning
To paint your skin—­the rosy air
  That is your limbs’ adorning.

To paint the love-bows of your lips,
  I’d mix, for colors, kisses;
And for your breasts and finger-tips,
  Sweet odors and soft blisses.

And to complete the picture well,
  I’d temper all with woman,—­
Some tears, some laughter; heaven and hell,
  To show you still are human.

A Song for Yule

I

Sing, Hey, when the time rolls round this way,
And the bells peal out, ’Tis Christmas Day;
The world is better then by half,
      For joy, for joy;
In a little while you will see it laugh—­
For a song’s to sing and a glass to quaff,
      My boy, my boy. 
So here’s to the man who never says nay!—­
Sing, Hey, a song of Christmas-Day!

II

Sing, Ho, when roofs are white with snow,
And homes are hung with mistletoe;
Old Earth is not half bad, I wis—­
      What cheer! what cheer! 
How it ever seemed sad the wonder is—­
With a gift to give and a girl to kiss,
      My dear, my dear. 
So here’s to the girl who never says no! 
Sing, Ho, a song of the mistletoe!

III

No thing in the world to the heart seems wrong
When the soul of a man walks out with song;
Wherever they go, glad hand in hand,
      And glove in glove,
The round of the land is rainbow-spanned,
And the meaning of life they understand
      Is love, is love. 
Let the heart be open, the soul be strong,
And life will be glad as a Christmas song.

The Puritans’ Christmas

Their only thought religion,
  What Christmas joys had they,
The stern, staunch Pilgrim Fathers who
  Knew naught of holiday?—­

A log-church in the clearing
  ’Mid solitudes of snow,
The wild-beast and the wilderness,
  And lurking Indian foe.

No time had they for pleasure,
  Whom God had put to school;
A sermon was their Christmas cheer,
  A psalm their only Yule.

They deemed it joy sufficient,—­
  Nor would Christ take it ill,—­
That service to Himself and God
  Employed their spirits still.

And so through faith and prayer
  Their powers were renewed,
And souls made strong to shape a World,
  And tame a solitude.