Narrator
The city had withdrawn into itself
And left at last the country to the country;
When between whirls of snow not come to lie
And whirls of foliage not yet laid, there drove
A stranger to our yard, who looked the city,
Yet did in country fashion in that there
He sat and waited till he drew us out
A-buttoning coats to ask him who he was.
Narrator
He proved to be the city come again
To look for something it had left behind
And could not do without and keep its Christmas.
Narrator
He asked if I would sell my Christmas trees;
My woods— the young fir balsams like a place
Where houses all are churches and have spires.
Narrator
I hadn’t thought of them as Christmas Trees.
Narrator
I doubt if I was tempted for a moment
To sell them off their feet to go in cars
And leave the slope behind the house all bare,
Where the sun shines now no warmer than the moon.
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