Alexander Smith (1830–1867)

SHEATHED is the river as it glideth by,

Frost-pearled are all the boughs in forest old,

The sheep are huddling close upon the wold,

And over them the stars tremble on high.

Pure joys these winter-nights around me lie;

’T is fine to loiter through the lighted streets

At Christmas time, and guess from brow and pace

The doom and history of each one we meet,

What kind of heart beats in each dusky case;

Whiles startled by the beauty of a face

In a shop-light a moment. Or, instead,

To dream of silent fields, where calm and deep

The sunshine lieth like a golden sleep,—

Recalling sweetest looks of summers dead.