And a nameless longing filled her breast, - A wish, that she hardly dared to own, For something better than she had known

Ah, that I were free again! Free as when I rode that day, Where the barefoot maiden raked the hay

For somehow, not only at Christmas, but all the long year through, The joy that you give to others is the joy that comes back to you.

For of all sad words of tongue or pen, the saddest are these: ''It might have been!''

How dwarfed against his manliness she sees the poor pretension, the wants, the aims, the follies, born of fashion and convention!

No lance have I, in joust or fight, To splinter in my lady's sight; But, at her feet, how blest were I For any need of hers to die!

No longer forward nor behind, I look in hope or fear; But grateful take the good I find, The best of now and here.

For all sad words of tongue and pen, the saddest are those 'It might have been.'

The saddest are these: 'It might have been!'

Somehow, not only for Christmas but all the long year through, The joy that you give to others Is the joy that comes back to you. And the more you spend in blessing The poor and lonely and sad, The more of your heart's possessing Returns to you glad.