|
He little knew the sorrow
that was in his vacant chair;
He never guessed they'd miss him,
or he'd surely have been there;
He couldn't see his mother
or the lump that filled her throat,
Or the tears that started falling
as she read his hasty note;
And he couldn't see his father,
sitting sorrowful and dumb,
Or he never would have written
that he thought he couldn't come.
He little knew the gladness
that his presence would have made,
And the joy it would have given,
or he never would have stayed.
He didn't know how hungry
had the little mother grown
Once again to see her baby
and to claim him for her own.
He didn't guess the meaning
of his visit Christmas Day
Or he never would have written
that he couldn't get away.
He couldn't see the fading
of the cheeks that once were pink,
And the silver in the tresses;
and he didn't stop to think
How the years are passing swiftly,
and next Christmas it might be
There would be no home to visit
and no mother dear to see.
He didn't think about it --
I'll not say he didn't care.
He was heedless and forgetful
or he'd surely have been there.
Are you going home for Christmas?
Have you written you'll be there?
Going home to kiss the mother
and to show her that you care?
Going home to greet the father
in a way to make him glad?
If you're not I hope there'll never be
a time you'll wish you had.
Just sit down and write a letter --
it will make their heart strings hum
With a tune of perfect gladness --
if you'll tell them that you'll come. |
