Have I not seen the stars go out That shed their light o'er Galilee, And mighty kingdoms tossed about And crumbled clod-like in the sea? Dead ashes of dead ages blow And cover me like drifting snow, And time laughs on as 'twere a jest That I have any need of rest. _Becalmed_ 1 Would that the winds might only blow As they blew in the golden long ago--! Laden with odors of Orient isles Where ever and ever the sunshine smiles, And the bright sands blend with the shady trees, And the lotus blooms in the midst of these. 2 Warm winds won from the midland vales To where the tress of the Siren trails O'er the flossy tip of the mountain phlox And the bare limbs twined in the crested rocks, High above as the seagulls flap Their lopping wings at the thunder-clap. 3 Ah! That the winds might rise and blow The great surge up from the port below, Bloating the sad, lank, silken sails Of the Argo out with the swift, sweet gales That blew from Colchis when Jason had His love's full will and his heart was glad-- When Medea's voice was soft and low. Ah! That the winds might rise and blow! _To Santa Claus_ Most tangible of all the gods that be, O Santa Claus-- our own since Infancy! As first we scampered to thee-- now, as then, Take us as children to thy heart again. Be wholly good to us, just as of old: As a pleased father, let thine arms infold Us, homed within the haven of thy love, And all the cheer and wholesomeness thereof. Thou lone reality, when O so long Life's unrealities have wrought us wrong: Ambition hath allured us--, fame likewise, And all that promised honor in men's eyes. Throughout the world's evasions, wiles, and shifts, Thou only bidest stable as thy gifts--: A grateful king re-ruleth from thy lap, Crowned with a little tinselled soldier-cap: A mighty general-- a nation's pride-- Thou givest again a rocking-horse to ride, And wildly glad he groweth as the grim Old jurist with the drum thou givest him: The sculptor's chisel, at thy mirth's command, Is as a whistle in his boyish hand; The painters model fadeth utterly, And there thou standest--, and he painteth thee--: Most like a winter pippin, sound and fine And tingling-red that ripe old face of thine, Set in thy frosty beard of cheek and chin As midst the snows the thaws of spring set in. Ho! Santa Claus-- our own since Infancy-- Most tangible of all the gods that be--! As first we scampered to thee-- now, as then, Take us as children to thy heart again. _Where the Children used to Play_ The old farm-home is Mother's yet and mine, And filled it is with plenty and to spare--, But we are lonely here in life's decline, Though fortune smiles around us everywhere: We look across the gold Of the harvests, as of old-- The corn, the fragrant clover, and the hay; But most we turn our gaze, As with eyes of other days, To the orchard where the children used to play.