Sylvia Plath

A Winter's Tale

On Boston Common a red star Gleams, wired to a tall Ulmus Americana. Magi near The domed State House. Old Joseph holds an alpenstock. Two waxen oxen flank the Child. A black sheep leads the shepherds' flock. Mary looks mild. Angels—more feminine and douce Than models from Bonwit's or Jay's, Haloes lustrous as Sirius— Gilt trumpets raise. By S. S. Pierce, by S. S. Pierce, The red-nosed, blue-caped women ring For money. Lord, the crowds are fierce! There's caroling On Winter Street, on Temple Place. Poodles are baking cookies in Filene's show windows. Grant us grace, Donner, Blitzen, And all you Santa's deer who browse By leave of the Park Commission On grass that once fed Boston cows. In unison On Pinckney, Mount Vernon, Chestnut, The wreathed doors open to the crowd. Noel! Noel! No mouth is shut. Off key and loud The populace sings toward the sill Of windows with odd violet panes. O Little City on a Hill! The cordial strains Of bellringers and singers rouse Frost-bitten pigeons, eddy forth From Charles Street to the Custom House, From South Station to North.