ON GOING HOME FOR CHRISTMAS

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 did n't know how hungry had the little mother grown

Once again to see her baby and to claim him for her own.

He did n't guess the meaning of his visit Christmas Day

Or he never would have written that he could n't get away.

He could n't see the fading of the cheeks that once were pink,

And the silver in the tresses; and he did n'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 did n't think about it — I'll not say he did n't care.

He was heedless and forgetful or he'd surely have been there.