He little knew the sorrow that was in his vacant chair; <br />He never guessed they'd miss him, or he'd surely have been there; <br />He couldn't see his mother or the lump that filled her throat, <br />Or the tears that started falling as she read his hasty note; <br />And he couldn't see his father, sitting sorrowful and dumb, <br />Or he never would have written that he thought he couldn't come. <br /> <br />He little knew the gladness that his presence would have made, <br />And the joy it would have given, or he never would have stayed. <br />He didn't know how hungry had the little mother grown <br />Once again to see her baby and to claim him for her own. <br />He didn't guess the meaning of his visit Christmas Day <br />Or he never would have written that he couldn't get away. <br /> <br />He couldn't see the fading of the cheeks that once were pink, <br />And the silver in the tresses; and he didn't stop to think <br />How the years are passing swiftly, and next Christmas it might be <br />There would be no home to visit and no mother dear to see. <br />He didn't think about it — I'll not say he didn't care. <br />He was heedless and forgetful or he'd surely have been there. <br /> <br />Are you going home for Christmas? Have you written you'll be there? <br />Going home to kiss the mother and to show her that you care? <br />Going home to greet the father in a way to make him glad? <br />If you're not I hope there'll never come a time you'll wish you had. <br />Just sit down and write a letter — it will make their heart strings hum <br />With a tune of perfect gladness — if you'll tell them that you'll come.<br /><br />Edgar Albert Guest<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/on-going-home-for-christmas/
