At nine of the night I opened my door

That stands midway between moor and moor,

And all around me, sliver-bright,

I saw that the world had turned to white.

Thick was the snow on field and hedge

And vanished was the river-sedge,

Where winter skillfully had wound

A shining scarf without a sound.

And as I stood and gazed my fill

A stable-boy came down the hill.

With every step I saw him take

Flew at his heel a puff of flake.

His brow was whiter than the hoar,

A beard of freshest snow he wore,

And round about him, snowflake starred,

A red horse-blanket from the yard.

In a red cloak I saw him go,

His back was bent, his step was slow,

And as he laboured through the cold

He seemed a hundred winters old.

I stood and watched the snowy head,

The whiskers white, the cloak of red.

“A Merry Christmas!” I heard him cry.

“The same to you, old friend,” said I.