Sunday Morning Peace

Let's Never Grow Too Old

Oh, heart, let's never grown too old

To smile anew, when Christmas comes,

At tassels red and tinsel thread,

And tarlatan bags of sugarplums;

To catch that unforgotten scent,

Spicy and gay, without a name,

Of pungent orange peeling blend

With cedar scorched in candle flame;

To draw a well-beloved delight

From one dear melody unbond

While shepherds watched their flocks by night,

A glory shone around.

Let's never grow too old, my heart,

To thrill before the jaunty grace

Of stockings hung with careful art

Beside the chimney's homely face:

Above one rim, a lay doll;

Above the next, a wooly cat;

Topping the third, a rubbger ball;

Each stocking knobby-toed and fat.

Pure stuff of magic in the sight,

And one sweet legend with them wound:

While shepherds watched their flocks by night,

A glory shone around.

Oh, heart, let's never be too old

To feel again the yule log's glow,

To catch the tinkle, keen and cold,

Of silver sleighbells through the snow.

Let's never fail to learn, a space,

Against the frosty widow-bar

And mark aloft, in heaven's place,

One solemn, lovely, silent star.

The shadows fall, the dreams take flight,

But every year is Christmas-crowned

When shepherds watch their flocks by night,

And glory shines around!

           --Nancy Bryd Turner