By Allen R. Darrow
To wandering children in the ages old,
I’ve often heard that mystic tales were told
Of fairy lands, where oft on trees and bowers
There fell from heaven pure crystal gems in showers.
Well, I believe, and so I think must you
That myths are shadows sometimes of the true;
For going forth upon a winter morn
A wondrous glory did the day adorn,
On every tree along the city street,
What matchless splendor did my vision greet.
Pendant from silver-coated branch and stem,
In argent beauty hung a brilliant gem;
Sparkling in candescent glory bright,
Shone myriad diamonds in the morning light.
Nature from its exhaustless wealth and store,
Through every street and by-way o’er and o’er,
Prodigal alike to all the rich and poor
Had scattered rivals to the Khoinoor.