O Little Town

Under your polar star,
o little town of boughs,
bear your more than summerbright
snowvined fruit. The house
returns to wildwood,

cool greenness of thick pine,
prickling smell of the sun.
The year recovers childhood,
frost at the pane, bells on the air,
deer in the sky,
good will to men.

The day that never would come is here.
All night waking
we lay half sure
of a lump of coal in the toe of the stocking.
Sly bell, sleigh boot

waited at the foot of the flue.
How could such girth of good
get through? But it did.
Mirth is a youth, breath is a wreath, a wealth
and a health
and peace on earth

(o little town !)
casts its crown on the floor of the barn,
mitre and sceptre before the crib.
Hollyhorn and mistletwig
glow in the candles.

How many angels dance on the tinsel?
How many uncles are opening bundles
dressed like a berry?
Time rhymes with chime, laughing with stuffing,
holly with jolly.
God rest you merry.