  Only a tiny stocking hung in the fire light warm, Only a weary pilgrim breasting the tide of the storm; Only an anxious watcher piercing the heart of the gloom; Only a prayerful whisper breaking the calm of the room. Time creeps slowly forward while the swirling snow flakes fall Upon field, and hill, and highway, and night enfolds them all; But hark! a voice is shouting, then a welcome step draws near, And the angel:—Joy, has banished the ghosts of doubt, of fear. Only a sleepy fairy who trembles to behold A host of precious trophies with a wonderment untold, But the treasure highest valued, the pure, the perfect prize Is love, the true love beaming from her own dear father’s eyes. |
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