Arthur Stringer (1874–1950)

I PASS where the pines for Christmas

Stand thick in the crowded street,

Where the groves of Dream and Silence

Are paced by feverish feet.

And far through the rain and the street-cries

My homesick heart goes forth

To the pine-clad hills of childhood,

To the dark and tender North.

And I see the glooming pine-lands,

And I thrill to the Northland cold,

Where the sunset falls in silence

On the hills of gloom and gold!

And the still dusk woods close round me,

And I know the waiting eyes

Of my North, as a child’s, are tender,

As a sorrowing mother’s, wise!