Virna Sheard (1865-1943 / Ontario)

For thee, my small one--trinkets and new toys,
The wine of life and all its keenest joys,
When Christmas comes.
For me, the broken playthings of the past
That in my folded hands I still hold fast,
When Christmas comes.

For thee, fair hopes of all that yet may be,
And tender dreams of sweetest mystery,
When Christmas comes.
For thee, the future in a golden haze,
For me, the memory of some bygone days,
When Christmas comes.

For thee, the things that lightly come and go,
For thee, the holly and the mistletoe,
When Christmas comes.
For me, the smiles that are akin to tears,
For me, the frost and snows of many years,
When Christmas comes.

For thee, the twinkling candles bright and gay,
For me, the purple shadows and the grey,
When Christmas comes.
For thee, the friends that greet thee at the door,
For me, the faces I shall see no more,
When Christmas comes.

But ah, for both of us the mystic star
That leadeth back to Bethlehem afar,
When Christmas comes.
For both of us the child they saw of old,
That evermore his mother's arms enfold,
When Christmas comes.