When flowers of affection grow, Like edelweiss mid alpine snow, In lives severe and beautiless, Unused to warmth or tenderness.
Let goodness, grace, and gratitude Revive in music's interlude, And pæan notes, till time shall cease, Proclaim the blessed reign of peace.
Ring, Christmas bells! for at the sound Sweet memories of Him abound Who laid aside a diadem To be the babe of Bethlehem.
I am longing to dwell by the sea, And dip in the surf every day, And--height of subaqueous glee-- With the sharks and the porpoises play.
To novelty ever inclined-- Instead of a calm evening sail, 'Twould suit my adventurous mind To ride on the back of a whale.
I want to disport on the rocks Like a mythical mermaiden belle, And comb out my watery locks, Then dive to my cavernous cell.
I want to discover what lends Such terror to all timid folks-- That serpent whose mystery tends To make one believe it a hoax.
They say he's been captured at last; The news is too good to be true-- He's slippery, cunning, and fast, And likes notoriety too.
Once had I such longings to be A sailor--those wishes are o'er, But ever in dreams of the sea My horoscope rests on the shore.
Oh, give me a home by the sea-- A cottage, a cabin, a tent! Existence should ecstasy be Till summer were joyfully spent.
Oh, sing me a merry song! My heart is sad tonight; The day has been so drear and long, The world has gone awry and wrong, Discouragements around me throng, And gloom surpassing night.
Oh, sing again the song for me My mother used to sing When I, a child beside her knee, Looked up for her sweet sympathy, Nor ever thought how I might be Her little hindering thing.
Oh, sing, as eventide draws near, The old-time lullabys Grandmother sang--forever dear, Though in her grave this many a year She lies who "read her title clear To mansions in the skies."
Oh, sing till all perplexing care Has vanished with the day! And angels ever bright and fair Come down the melody to share, And on their pinions lightly bear My happy soul away.
No, this is January, dear, The almanac's untrue; For roaring Boreas, 'tis clear, In sleet and snow and atmosphere, Will be the monarch of the year, And terror, too.
"Is it a blessing in disguise?" Of course, things always are; But Arctic blasts with ardent skies Somehow do not quite harmonize, That try to cheat by weather-lies The calendar.