The Christmas House



Quiet and still sits a house on a hill

In wintry white adorned;

With a happy fire by which to retire,

Where none are ever scorned.


Upon the air hangs, crisp and fair,

A scent from the smoky plumes

That through the willows heartily billows

And throughout the forest fumes.


Out of ancient stone, its walls have grown,

The roof out of living lumber;

Its chambers are many; its stores aplenty;

It is a house that does not slumber.


Amidst the trees, who stand at ease

Beneath their snowy loads,

There stirs not a sound for miles around,

Save upon the crooked roads


Where young and old trudge through the cold

Round the smooth and winding lane,

That despite the chill is pleasant still

And leads up to the cottage gate.


The children play along the way

And laugh and josh and giggle,

Running to and fro in the downy snow,

As with glee they shout and wiggle.


While the old and gray ride in their sleighs

Recounting the greatest tales;

In verse and rhyme, they each tell the time

When first they crossed these hilly vales.


Then enter through those happy few

To whom the House is known,

Who plop and slump into wooly lumps,

Their weathered coats upon the stone.


The dancing light the heart excites

Amidst the glistening tinsel,

And illumines there all faces, fair,

Who, gathered round, there mingle.


Full of laughter and mirth there is never a dearth

Of company jolly and good.

You will laugh ’til you cry, ’til there’s pain in your sides

And you’re curled where you once had stood.


There is coffee and tea, and treats for free;

No guest shall ever lack.

There is always a seat and plenty to eat;

Those who enter shall never go back.


“Would you care to dine, or prefer only wine?”,

The Host may gladly inquire.

One or both you may chose, for you cannot lose

In a House that does not ever require.


For those who wane from the blithe refrain

Of the loud and jocund hymns,

There are tranquil lumps of pillows, plump,

That with comfort plushly brim.


Swathed in down, you shall gently drown

Beneath a furry heap;

And in a wooly bundle softly trundle

Into a fathomless sleep.


Silent and askew until morning anew

The guests of the House shall slumber,

And endlessly dream of merry scenes

That flourish without number.


Though times be strange and the seasons change,

The House does yet abide;

For it is eternal and ageless, enduring and changeless,

And its splendor shall never subside.


Of such a Home, precious little is known,

And fewer, still, have found;

For arduous is the way to the festive buffet,

The path of fabled renown.


Though throngs have sought the distant spot

Whereon the House resides,

It’s only the pure, the merry, the sure

Who the Keeper subtly guides;


For they alone will see what it truly means to be

A distinguished and honored guest

In the House of ages, the envy of sages,

By which they will be assuredly blessed.


Should you happen to find yourself inclined

To venture through its gate,

May your happiness abound in the joyful sound

That the halls of the Christmas House make.


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