Who wants the apples, scarlet-stained and mellow, Must give the buds upon his orchard-tree; Then, for those finely painted birds that follow The sun about and scent their songs with flowers, We have, when frosts are sharp and rains beat hollow, These pretty, gray crumb-gathering pets of ours; The butterflies (you could not catch) were brighter Than anything that we have left in air; But these still-flying shapes of snow are whiter, I fancy, than the very lilies were. Then, is the glimmer of fire-flies, cold and eerie, Far in the dusk, so pleasant after all As is this home-lamp playing warm and cheery, Among your shadow-pictures on the wall? But I forget. There ought to be a story, A lovely story! Who shall tell it, then? The boys want war--plumes, helmets, shields and glory-- They'd like a grand review of Homer's men. Their jealous sisters say it's tiresome hearing (A girl is not as patient as a boy,) Of that old beauty--yes, the much-recurring, About-three-thousand-years-old, Helen of Troy. [Illustration: 0034] They'd rather hear some love-tale murmured faintly Through music of the sleigh-bells: something true, Such as their young grandmothers, shy and saintly, Heard under stars of winter--told anew! The little children, one and all, are crying For just a few more fairies--but, you know They go to sleep when golden-rod is dying, And do not wake till there is no more snow. They sleep who kept your Jersey cow from straying, My boy, while you were deep in books and grass: Who tended flowers, my girl, while you were playing Some double game, or wearing out your glass. They sleep--but what sweet things they have been making, By golden moons, to give you a surprise-- Beat slower, little hearts with wonder aching, Keep in the dark yet, all you eager eyes! The fairies sleep. But their high lord and master Keeps wide-awake, and watches every hearth; Great waters freeze that he may travel faster-- He puts a girdle round about the earth! Just now in the dim North, as he remembers His birthday back through centuries, he appears A trifle sad, and looks into the embers-- Then shakes down from his cheek a shower of tears. He thinks of little hands that reached out lightly To catch his beard and pull it with a will, Now round their buried rosebuds folded whitely, Forever and forever, oh, how still! "Ah, where are all the children? How I miss them! So many worlds-full are gone since I came!