Finis Coronat Opus

Snowdrifts pile ‘neath windows lit, Through which pane does family sit With a hearth ablaze in light, Piercing through the cold of night. Carols waft with flurries swift, Lending warmth past each snowdrift; Gleeful children scamper ‘round, Pelting snowballs in the town. Winter dreary oft can be, Like the clouds o’er troubled sea; Yet, with birth of Holy Boy, Nations all do taste of joy.

Scents of a fowl roasting over a fire, Simmering stews bubble there, held by thick wire; Steam fills the air, wafting through all the house, Promising feasting on pheasant and grouse. Carrots, potatoes, and herbs from afar, Seething in pots, placed on coals in the fire; Bread in the oven and cheese on the board, Butter and olives and jams, all adorn. Tables are gathered and guests are all called Hither to feast in such richness withal, Joining in fellowship dear with such friends, Joyously cheery, from children to man.