A. B. DE MILLE

WHERE the world is gray and lone Sits the Ice King on his throne— Passionless, austere, afar, Underneath the Polar Star. Over all his splendid plains An eternal stillness reigns. Silent creatures of the North, White and strange and fierce, steal forth: Soft-foot beasts from frozen lair, Noiseless birds that wing the air, Souls of seamen dead, who lie Stark beneath the pale north sky; Shapes to living eye unknown, Wild and shy, come round the throne Where the Ice King sits in view To receive their homage due. But the Ice King's quiet eyes, Calm, implacable, and wise, Gaze beyond the silent throng, With a steadfast look and long, Down to where the summer streams Murmur in their golden dreams; Where the sky is rich and deep, Where warm stars bring down warm sleep, Where the days are, every one, Clad with warmth and crowned with sun. And the longing gods may feel Stirs within his heart of steel, And he yearns far forth to go From his land of ice and snow. But forever, gray and lone, Sits the Ice King on his throne— Passionless, austere, afar, Underneath the Polar Star.

GOOD Christmas bells, I pray you Ring him back to me; For I am in the village, And he is on the sea. And out beyond the harbor The surf is playing white; Good Christmas bells, I pray you Ring him home to-night! The reef beyond the harbor Is girt with hungry foam; Good Christmas bells, I pray you Ring my sailor home! The lighthouse in the harbor Burns clear, and keen, and still; But a sound is in the village, A voice is on the hill: The voice of distant surges, And he is on the sea— Good Christmas bells, I pray you Ring him back to me!