 Poetry: December 06, 2017 Issue [#8636] |
  Poetry
This week: Clement Clarke Moore Edited by: Stormy Lady  
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I read this every Christmas to my children growing up. Now that they have graduated college and are miles away I thought I would share it with you. Happy Holidays to all my writing.com friends and family.
'Twas the Night Before Christmas
(or A Visit from St. Nicholas)
by Clement Clarke Moore
'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house
not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.
The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
in hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there.
The children were nestled all snug in their beds,
while visions of sugar plums danced in their heads.
And Mama in her 'kerchief, and I in my cap,
had just settled our brains for a long winter's nap.
When out on the roof there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
tore open the shutter, and threw up the sash.
The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow
gave the lustre of midday to objects below,
when, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
but a miniature sleigh and eight tiny reindeer.
With a little old driver, so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick.
More rapid than eagles, his courses they came,
and he whistled and shouted and called them by name:
"Now Dasher! Now Dancer!
Now, Prancer and Vixen!
On, Comet! On, Cupid!
On, Donner and Blitzen!
To the top of the porch!
To the top of the wall!
Now dash away! Dash away!
Dash away all!"
As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
when they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky
so up to the house-top the courses they flew,
with the sleigh full of toys, and St. Nicholas too.
And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof
the prancing and pawing of each little hoof.
As I drew in my head and was turning around,
down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound.
He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot,
and his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot.
A bundle of toys he had flung on his back,
and he looked like a peddler just opening his pack.
His eyes--how they twinkled! His dimples, how merry!
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
and the beard on his chin was as white as the snow.
The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,
and the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath.
He had a broad face and a little round belly,
that shook when he laughed, like a bowl full of jelly.
He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf,
and I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself.
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head
soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread.
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
and filled all the stockings, then turned with a jerk.
And laying his finger aside of his nose,
and giving a nod, up the chimney he rose.
He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.
But I heard him exclaim, 'ere he drove out of sight,
"Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night!"
Clement Clarke Moore was born in 1779 in New York. Moore's father, Reverend Benjamin Moore, was well known. He was the Episcopal Bishop of New York. His father was a part of George Washington's first inauguration and he also gave last rights to Alexander Hamilton. Clement Moore was an author and a noted Hebrew scholar. It is said that he spoke five different languages and was a real-estate owner and developer in Manhattan.
Moore had many accomplishments, but he is remembered only for his poem " 'Twas the Night Before Christmas." It has been told that Moore wrote the poem on Christmas Eve in 1822. He was riding in a sleigh on his way back from Greenwich Village after picking up a turkey for Christmas dinner. Some even say that the large man driving his sleigh that night was the inspiration Moore used for his chubby St. Nicholas.
When Moore arrived home he read his poem to his six children and his wife. It is said that he thought no more about the poem and it was family friend that submitted the poem to a local newspaper. It was published anonymously in the New York, Sentential. Moore didn't copyright the poem, and only claimed it as his own close to a decade after it was first published. He finally included the poem in a book of his poetry in 1844.
Moore died in 1863 he is buried in a cemetery in lower Manhattan, New York.
Thank you all!
Stormy Lady
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Perched in a tree outside the window
watching the people of the house,
celebrate the holiday with noisy horns.
Waiting, for the lights to dim.
Then her dream becomes reality
stocking the innocent and the wayward.
In the distance -
wolves howl – making sweet music -
at the full moon, as it scurries through starlight.
A creature of the night herself
walks the shadowy streets.
With little hope for the city to survive.
Honorable mention:
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