On Christmas morn,
Children, first looking from the windows,
See how desolate and bleak the garden is.
Withered the flowers, butterflies flown,
Summer gone from the woods.
Out there, the leaves that flutter down
Are elfin butterflies, pearled with frost-patterns.
Flowers and ferns of the garden
Have come in fairy lace on the window-panes.
And what is this,
Wound about with climbing vines of the garden all turned to silver,
Lighted with candles that make fireflies
In every shining ball and glazen pendant?
Summer has come into the cottage!
It is May in the hearts of the children:
And sweet as songs of the thrush at twilight
Are the Noels raised by their happy voices.
Fairies, oh! fairies,
Come dancing soft as shadows,
Set the wood a-whirl with snowy wings.
Weave your iridescent webs,
Wind them in beauty about the Tree:
Touch it with wands of frost
Until it is tipped and trimmed with icicles,
Barbara Newhall Follett — Christmas, 1924