One December

Now that the year unto its close is rounding,
And sleet slants down the breeze,
My mind across the perished past is bounding
As leaps a ship across the racing seas.

It is once more that magical December,
Void of the north wind's stings,
And lighted by Romance's quenchless ember,
When first I drank the Orient's golden springs.

Again I leave the land of Pharoah's daughter,—
The long, low umber dunes,—
Embarking on a waveless waste of water
Beneath the most inviolate of moons.

I see it, like a lovely lotus, lying
Upon night's placid pool,
And hark the flapping of flamingoes flying —
Faint scraps of sunset—through the ether cool.

Scarce seems the black bulk of the vessel shifting
So soft we glide along.
While dreamily adown the deck comes drifting
The liquid ripple of Levantine song.

Thus am I borne unto a goal elysian
Across sleep's shadowy bar,
To find, at waking, burning on my vision,
From out the east, an iridescent star.

The shepherd's star— not broader and not brighter
The sages saw it shine!—
Now grows the hill-notched sky-line swiftly lighter;
'Tis Christmas morning over Palestine!