TO W. B. W.
Once more ’tis the night before Christmas; once more
The Christ-child is entering each open door;
The holly-bough glistens, the earth is all white,
In the jubilant heavens the Star is a-light.
May I sit by your hearthstone once more, as of old?
My story—a brief one—shall quickly be told.
We bring you no Sèvres nor Japanese Kaga,
But only an innocent kind of a dagger.
(Allow me a few editorial “we’s,”
The plural is handy in rhymes such as these.)
The blade is no marvel, ’tis not Muramasa—
(“What’s that?” No one knows. Ask your daughter, from Vassar.)
Nay, we must admit, if perchance you should ask us,
’Twas forged in the States, and not at Damascus.
Too slim for a trinket, too large for a charm,
Too small for a weapon, too dull to do harm;
Too blunt for a bodkin, of life to deplete us,
’Twould not even serve for Hamlet’s quietus.
Cur igitur tibi gladiolum dabo—
Quemadmodum hoc explicare parabo?
Sie können nicht ganz die Verwerrung verstehen,
Ich will zum Puncte deswegen nun gehen.
Ce poignard petit est une clef de mon cœur,
Que je donne quelquefois à mon ami, ma sœur,
A celui, enfin, qui reçoit, dans mes lettres,
Les mots le plus tendres que je puis y mettre.
κἀγὼ πρὸς ὑμᾶς τὴν κλεῖδα λαβεῖν
ἐθέλειν ἐλπίζω καί με νῦν φιλεῖν.
(If once on a jingle like this voi entrate,
You must finish, or—ogni speranza lasciate!)
I wish I knew Indian, but somehow nobody
Seems ever to learn more than “Passamaquoddy,”
Or “Mooselucmaguntic,” “Welokennebacook,”
“Oquossuc,” “Musketequid,” and “Quantibacook.”
To compose in that language you will not deny
Is difficult. If you don’t think so—just try.
’Tis nonsense, dear friend, but I feel sure that you
Good-naturedly smile, and yet see ’tis true.
Unconscious as Lady Macbeth in her walking,
We give in our letters more self than in talking.
Perhaps when our Father looks lovingly down
On our wandering footsteps in country and town,
Our burdens, our hindrances all, He can see,
And read in His wisdom more surely than we.
Far more than when kneeling by altar or crypt,
Our deeds make the record, in broad, cursive script.
Thank God that the Reader and Father are one,
That the poor, blotted copy-book, hardly begun,
Is read by Him only who wrote on the sand,
And the torn covers folded at last by His hand.
Hark! Christmas bells ring for the birth of the Son—
Good-night! May He help us and bless us each one.