  The snow was new, and soft, and deep, The forest far away from me, And yet how could I Christmas keep Without a perfect Christmas tree? So I set out, a boy of twelve, With sled in hand to reach the pines, And through the snow made for myself A track amid most wild confines. Beneath the lofty trees there stood Full many a little evergreen, And all were straight, and seemed quite good, But not a perfect one was seen. I waded on from tree to tree, And thought, at times my choice I’d found, But lo, it lacked true symmetry, True symmetry from top to ground. And thus the afternoon was spent, Until the evening-shadows fell, My axe, at last, was deftly sent Into a spruce, each stroke did tell Its fate through all the silent wood, On echoes distant, echoes near, Which seemed to say in mocking mood: “The perfect one is here—is here!” My ardor for the perfect one Subsided as I strapped my prize, And easy was the compromise. My basking in the new-fall’n snow Had drenched me and brought on a chill, The homeward journey, long and slow, Sent me to bed severely ill. Long was I racked with fever’s fire, My life was like a flick’ring light, They thought its last gleam would expire Amid the storm of New Year’s night. Thus did I almost pay full score For that my first and youthful quest For perfectness, and evermore I’ve found this is her stern behest: Who would find me must give his all, And even then may sorely fail, But it adds glory to the soul To walk in the Immortal’s trail. |
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