'Tis Christmas, and the North wind blows; 't was two years yesterday

Since from the Lusitania's bows I looked o'er Table Bay,

A tripper round the narrow world, a pilgrim of the main,

Expecting when her sails unfurled to start for home again.

'Tis Christmas, and the North wind blows;

to-day our hearts are one,

Though you are 'mid the English snows and I in Austral sun; You, when you hear the Northern blast, pile high a mightier fire, Our ladies cower until it's past in lawn and lace attire.

I daresay you'll be on the lake, or sliding on the snow,

And breathing on your hands to make the circulation flow,

Nestling your nose among the furs of which your boa's made,

The Fahrenheit here registers a hundred in the shade.

It is not quite a Christmas here with this unclouded sky,

This pure transparent atmosphere, this sun midheaven-high;

To see the rose upon the bush, young leaves upon the trees,

And hear the forest's summer hush or the low hum of bees.

But cold winds bring not Christmastide, nor budding roses June,

And when it's night upon your side we 're basking in the noon.

Kind hearts make Christmas-June can bring blue sky or clouds above; The only universal spring is that which comes of love.

And so it's Christmas in the South as or the North-Sea coasts,

Though we are starved with summer-drouth and you with winter frosts. And we shall have our roast beef here, and think of you the while, Though all the watery hemisphere cuts off the mother isle.

Feel sure that we shall think of you, we who have wandered forth,

And sure 't was 'neath thy shade
Tityrus oft did use
(The while his oxen strayed)
To meditate the Muse.
To thee 't was Corydon

(Sad shepherd) did lament Vain hopes, and violets wan To fair Alexis sent.

Our singers loved thee, too:
In Chaucer's liquid verse
Are set thy praises due

The ages but rehearse ;
Though later poets bring

Their homage still, and I The least of those who sing Thy name would magnify.

For long ago my sires,

Ere Hengist crossed the sea To map our English shires,

Gave up their heart to thee, And vowed if thou wouldst keep Their lives from fire and foe, Thou too shouldst never weep

The axe's deadly blow.

Thou hast my heart to-day:
Whether in June I sit
And watch the leaves at play,
The flickering shadows flit;
Or whether, when leaves fall
And red the autumn mould,
I pace the woodland hall

Thy stately trunks uphold.

Thou hast my heart, and here
In scattered fruit I see
An emblem true and clear
Of what my heart must be:

THE loves that doubted, the loves that dissembled,

That still mistrusted themselves and trembled,

That held back their hands and would not touch;

Who strained sad eyes to look more nearly, And saw too curiously and clearly

What others blindly clutch;

To whom their passion seemed only seeming, Who dozed and dreamed they were only dreaming,

And fell in a dusk of dreams on sleep; When dreams and darkness are rent asunder,

And morn makes mock of their doubts and wonder,

What should they do but weep?

A PASTORAL

My love and I among the mountains strayed When heaven and earth in summer heat

were still,

Aware anon that at our feet were laid
Within a sunny hollow of the hill
A long-haired shepherd-lover and a maid.

They saw nor heard us, who a space above, With hands clasped close as hers were clasped in his,

Marked how the gentle golden sunlight

strove