He will not come to him this year with all his old-time joy, <br /> An imitation Santa Claus must serve his little boy; <br /> Last year he heard the reindeers paw the roof above his head, <br /> And as he dreamed the kindly saint tip-toed about his bed, <br /> But Christmas Eve he will not come by any happy chance; <br /> This year his kindly Santa Claus must guard a trench in France. <br /> <br /> His mother bravely tries to smile; last Christmas Eve was gay; <br /> Last Christmas morn his daddy rose at dawn with him to play; <br /> This year he'll hang his stocking by the chimney, but the hands <br /> That filled it with the joys he craved now serve in foreign lands. <br /> He is too young to understand his mother's troubled glance, <br /> But he that was his Santa Claus is in a trench in France. <br /> <br /> Somewhere in France this Christmas Eve a soldier brave will be, <br /> And all that night in fancy he will trim a Christmas tree; <br /> And all that night he'll live again the joys that once he had <br /> When he was good St. Nicholas unto a certain lad. <br /> And he will wonder if his boy, by any sad mischance, <br /> Will find his stocking empty just because he serves in France.<br /><br />Edgar Albert Guest<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/his-santa-claus/
