The holidays are freighted, still
With thoughts of others days, long past;
It is the same, yet, not like last,
Nor any day since he fell ill.

Something elusive, in vain, restored;
Strange, how one absence, makes the change;
For never can man here, rearrange,
With stranger, at the festal-board;

Ah, no! We sing the carols, old,
And speak of the Savoir that we love;
Times are unchanged; this we shall prove,
The day is Christmas, and not cold;

And whispers under smile and jest--
The times are strange, we are grown wise;
The Child has grown like us in size;
The adult holiday is best.