Douglas Brooke Wheelton Sladen
A Christmas Letter From Australia
’T IS Christmas, and the North wind blows; ’t was two years yesterday
Since from the Lusitania’s bows I looked o’er Table Bay,
A tripper round the narrow world, a pilgrim of the main,
Expecting when her sails unfurled to start for home again.
’T is Christmas, and the North wind blows; to-day our hearts are one,
Though you are ’mid the English snows and I in Austral sun;
You, when you hear the Northern blast, pile high a mightier fire,
Our ladies cower until it ’s past in lawn and lace attire.
I fancy I can picture you upon this Christmas night,
Just sitting as you used to do, the laughter at its height:
And then a sudden, silent pause intruding on your glee,
And kind eyes glistening because you chanced to think of me.
This morning when I woke and knew ’t was Christmas come again,
I almost fancied I could view white rime upon the pane,
And hear the ringing of the wheels upon the frosty ground,
And see the drip that downward steals in icy casket bound.
I daresay you ’ll be on the lake, or sliding on the snow,
And breathing on your hands to make the circulation flow,
Nestling your nose among the furs of which your boa ’s made,—
The Fahrenheit here registers a hundred in the shade.
It is not quite a Christmas here with this unclouded sky,
This pure transparent atmosphere, this sun midheaven-high;
To see the rose upon the bush, young leaves upon the trees,
And hear the forest’s summer hush or the low hum of bees.
But cold winds bring not Christmastide, nor budding roses June,
And when it ’s night upon your side we ’re basking in the noon.
Kind hearts make Christmas—June can bring blue sky or clouds above;
The only universal spring is that which comes of love.
And so it ’s Christmas in the South as on the North-Sea coasts,
Though we are starved with summer-drouth and you with winter frosts.
And we shall have our roast beef here, and think of you the while,
Though all the watery hemisphere cuts off the mother isle.
Feel sure that we shall think of you, we who have wandered forth,
And many a million thoughts will go to-day from south to north;
Old heads will muse on churches old, where bells will ring to-day—
The very bells, perchance, which tolled their fathers to the clay.
And now, good-night! and I shall dream that I am with you all,
Watching the ruddy embers gleam athwart the panelled hall;
Nor care I if I dream or not, though severed by the foam,
My heart is always in the spot which was my childhood’s home.
Douglas Brooke Wheelton Sladen's Other Poems
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
Comments about this poem (A Christmas Letter From Australia by Douglas Brooke Wheelton Sladen )
- The midnight scream, Harold R Hunt Sr
- It calls your name., Harold R Hunt Sr
- Dogs, Cinzia Wills
- Interminable Wanderer, Cinzia Wills
- The Sky, Harold R Hunt Sr
- That part of your heart, Rolfy Dsilva
- The letter puzzle., Harold R Hunt Sr
- I am Sorry, Md. Ziaul Haque
- If it wasn't for country music, Harold R Hunt Sr
- I Really Can't…, Md. Ziaul Haque
Poem of the Day
- The Road Not Taken, Robert Frost
- Still I Rise, Maya Angelou
- If You Forget Me, Pablo Neruda
- Sonnet I, Sir John Suckling
- Daffodils, William Wordsworth
- One Art, Elizabeth Bishop
- No Man Is An Island, John Donne
- I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings, Maya Angelou
- Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night, Dylan Thomas
- Phenomenal Woman, Maya Angelou
- Heather Burns
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
Edgar Albert Guest
(20 August 1881 - 5 August 1959)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(13 September 1916 – 23 November 1990)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)