One night as I sat by my table,
Tired of books and pen,
With wandering thoughts far straying
Out into the world of men;—
That world where the busy workers
Such magical deeds are doing,
Each one with a steady purpose
His own pet plans pursuing;
When the house was wrapt in silence,
And the children were all asleep,
And even the mouse in the wainscot
Had ceased to run and leap,
All at once from the open chimney
Came a hum and a rustle and whirring,
That startled me out of my dreaming,
And set my pulses stirring.
What was it? I paused and listened;
The roses were all in bloom,
And in from the garden floated
The violet’s rich perfume.
So it could not be Kriss Kringle,
For he only comes, you know,
When the Christmas bells are chiming,
And the hills are white with snow.
Hark! a sound as of rushing waters,
Or the rustle of falling leaves,
Or the patter of eager raindrops
Yonder among the eaves!
Then out from the dark, old chimney,
Blackened with soot and smoke,
With a whir of fluttering pinions
A startled birdling broke.
Dashing against the window;
Lighting a moment where
My sculptured angel folded
Its soft white wings in prayer;
Swinging upon the curtains;
Perched on the ivy-vine;
At last it rested trembling
In tender hands of mine.
No stain upon its plumage;
No dust upon its wings;
No hint of its companionship
With darkly soiling things!
O, happy bird, thou spirit!
Stretch thy glad plumes and soar
Where breath of soil or sorrow
Shall reach thee nevermore!