Winter Sundays

There was magic in Sundays of long ago. Life was sweet and the pace was slow. No motor fumes or poisonous spray Or shopping sprees to mar the day. The Sabbath was a Holy time... From the village church, bells would chime. And children, with fair and shiny tresses looked just like princes and princesses. Vases of flowers, all in full bloom Adorned the casement of every room, And our dining-table was always set With seasonal food, I remember yet. Joyfully, to the park we would go, Prancing through the crisp white snow; Then home we'd run, fast as could be To sit by the cosy fireside for tea. At eventide every voice would sing Hymns of praise to our Heavenly King. Then we would sleep and dream till dawn To wake afresh to greet a new dawn.