Our First War-Christmas

HARD to wait for the postman's tramp Up the snowy walk, for the hand that gropes Deep in his pack, while the children tease For the rainbow-ribboned packages, And women wax faint with their fearful hopes For those tattered, grimy envelopes With the foreign stamp, — Word, dear word from overseas, From the fleet, the trench, the camp. Oh, not jewels nor curious toys Of art and fashion, no gift most rare Can gladden those eyes that weep in the hush Of lonely nights, can bring the flush To faces white with their silent prayer, Like the letters, precious beyond compare, From our soldier-boys, Letters to laugh over, cry over, crush To the lips, our Christmas joys.