Viktor Rydberg's poem # 19156
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Viktor Rydberg's poetry.
Santa Claus
Midwinter night's cold is hard,
the stars sparkle and glitter.
Everyone sleeps in a private farm.
deep below midnight.
The moon wanders its silent path,
the snow shines light on fir and fir,
The snow shines white on the roofs.
Only Santa is awake.
It stands there so gray by the courtyard door,
gray against the white drift,
titter, like many winters before,
up against the moon's disk,
looks towards the forest, where fir and fir
the dark mur drags around his yard,
pondering, even though it doesn't know how to sail,
about a strange mystery.
Santa Claus
Midwinter night's cold is hard,
the stars sparkle and glitter.
Everyone sleeps in a private farm.
deep below midnight.
The moon wanders its silent path,
the snow shines light on fir and fir,
The snow shines white on the roofs.
Only Santa is awake.
It stands there so gray by the courtyard door,
gray against the white drift,
titter, like many winters before,
up against the moon's disk,
looks towards the forest, where fir and fir
the dark mur drags around his yard,
pondering, even though it doesn't know how to sail,
about a strange mystery.