A Literary Advent Calendar

Christmas is Come John Clare Christmas is come and every hearth Makes room to give him welcome now E'en want will dry its tears in mirth And crown him wi' a holly bough Tho tramping 'neath a winters sky O'er snow track paths and rhymey stiles The huswife sets her spining bye And bids him welcome wi' her smiles Each house is swept the day before And windows stuck wi' evergreens The snow is beesom'd from the door And comfort crowns the cottage scenes Gilt holly wi' its thorny pricks And yew and box wi' berrys small These deck the unus'd candlesticks And pictures hanging by the wall Neighbours resume their anual cheer Wishing wi smiles and spirits high Clad christmass and a happy year To every morning passer bye Milk maids their christmass journeys go Accompanyd wi favourd swain And childern pace the crumping snow To taste their grannys cake again Hung wi the ivys veining bough The ash trees round the cottage farm Are often stript of branches now Th

  Account of a Visit from St. Nicholas BY MAJOR HENRY LIVINGSTON, JR. ’Twas the night before Christmas, when all thro’ the house, Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse; The stockings were hung by the chimney with care, In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there; The children were nestled all snug in their beds, While visions of sugar plums danc’d in their heads, And Mama in her ‘kerchief, and I in my cap, Had just settled our brains for a long winter’s nap — When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter, I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter. Away to the window I flew like a flash, Tore open the shutters, and threw up the sash. The moon on the breast of the new fallen snow, Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects below; When, what to my wondering eyes should appear, But a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny rein-deer, With a little old driver, so lively and quick, I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick. More rapid than eagles his coursers they came, And he whistled,

  The Proud Little Christmas Tree Sarah Scott "This one! This one!" a small voice cries! "Oh yes! It's perfect and just the right size" The older voice agrees with laughter full of joy, Gazing with love, at an excited little boy. Sometime later, sitting proudly near the fire, The little Christmas tree is glad that he's not higher. For if he was, the boy would never reach His topmost branches, where he decorated each. And every spindle with a shiny coloured ball, Then ran around with tinsel, being careful not to fall. "Mummy! Daddy! Come now and see the tree! It's beautiful! All decorated, and all done, just by me!" With smiles on their faces, they all walked hand in hand, Eyes falling on the tree that's now looking so grand! They string tiny lights, it's quite the finishing touch. Nothing else is needed, except the presents, cards and such. Later on that night, when we all fall fast asleep, The little tree stands, his joy shining throug

  About a Boy Nick Hornby It struck him that how you spent Christmas was a message to the world about where you were in life.

  The Darkling Thrush Thomas Hardy I leant upon a coppice gate When Frost was spectre-grey, And Winter’s dregs made desolate The weakening eye of day. The tangled bine-stems scored the sky Like strings of broken lyres, And all mankind that haunted nigh Had sought their household fires. The land’s sharp features seemed to be The Century’s corpse outleant, His crypt the cloudy canopy, The wind his death-lament. The ancient pulse of germ and birth Was shrunken hard and dry, And every spirit upon earth Seemed fervourless as I. At once a voice arose among The bleak twigs overhead In a full-hearted evensong Of joy illimited; An aged thrush, frail, gaunt, and small, In blast-beruffled plume, Had chosen thus to fling his soul Upon the growing gloom. So little cause for carolings Of such ecstatic sound Was written on terrestrial things Afar or nigh around, That I could think there trembled through His happy good-night air Some blessed Hope, whereof he knew And I was unaware.

  The Kickleburrys on the Rhine William Makepeace Thackeray Pray, dear madam, another glass; it is Christmas time, it will do you no harm.

  The Meeting Henry Wadsworth Longfellow After so long an absence At last we meet again: Does the meeting give us pleasure, Or does it give us pain? The tree of life has been shaken, And but few of us linger now, Like the Prophet’s two or three berries In the top of the uppermost bough. We cordially greet each other In the old, familiar tone; And we think, though we do not say it, How old and gray he is grown! We speak of a Merry Christmas And many a Happy New Year; But each in his heart is thinking Of those that are not here. We speak of friends and their fortunes, And of what they did and said, Till the dead alone seem living, And the living alone seem dead. And at last we hardly distinguish Between the ghosts and the guests; And a mist and shadow of sadness Steals over our merriest jests.

  Winter Time Robert Louis Stevenson Late lies the wintry sun a-bed, A frosty, fiery sleepy-head; Blinks but an hour or two; and then, A blood-red orange, sets again. Before the stars have left the skies, At morning in the dark I rise; And shivering in my nakedness, By the cold candle, bathe and dress. Close by the jolly fire I sit To warm my frozen bones a bit; Or with a reindeer-sled, explore The colder countries round the door. When to go out, my nurse doth wrap Me in my comforter and cap; The cold wind burns my face, and blows Its frosty pepper up my nose. Black are my steps on silver sod; Thick blows my frosty breath abroad; And tree and house, and hill and lake, Are frosted like a wedding-cake.

  Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone J.K. Rowling One can never have enough socks. Another Christmas has come and gone and I didn’t get a single pair. People will insist on giving me books.

The Twelve Days of Christmas Anonymous The twelfth day of Christmas My true love sent to me Twelve fiddlers fiddling, Eleven ladies dancing, Ten pipers piping, Nine drummers drumming, Eight maids a-milking, Seven swans a-swimming, Six geese a-laying, Five gold rings, Four colly birds, Three French hens, Two turtle doves, and A partridge in a pear tree.

  How the Grinch Stole Christmas!  Dr. Seuss Christmas doesn’t come from a store, maybe Christmas perhaps means a little bit more.

  December began with shopping L Kiew for the exotic: mint and apple sauce, imported rosemary, cranberries, candied peel and blocks of English butter. It began with baking, the Christmas cake drenched daily with dark brandy until it oozed from the lightest finger-flick and emptying jar after jar of Robertson’s mincemeat into pastry. Cinnamon gold-dusted everything. After the final Advent window, we opened all our doors, welcoming hungry occupants, their cars filling up the driveway, aunts and uncles, cousins in greater and lesser iterations, the generations dressed in batik, bearing gifts. The kitchen was ever at the heart of it. My parents cooked together. Crackling, perfection an inch thick on the side of pig that Dad roasted while Mum beatified the oven-pan, red wine gravy, bliss of roux. Cheerful, family sat where we could, plates heavy in heady heat, heaped meat, golden potatoes, peas, carrots too. Our hands were full. Still there was more, glasses, cups, Anchor beer and Sunkist,

  Paris in Love Eloisa James I don’t want Christmas season to end, because it’s the only time I can legitimately indulge in one particular addiction: glitter.

[little tree] EE Cummings little tree little silent Christmas tree you are so little you are more like a flower

  The Silver Linings Playbook  Matthew Quick Miracles happen on Christmas, Pat. Everybody knows that shit.

  From Toffee by Sarah Crossnan She Will Know I buy a tree so that when Marla comes home she will smile and know it is Christmas . I buy a tall tree and cover it in baubles and coloured lights for when Marla comes HOME

  Smile Anyway Richelle E. Goodrich Christmas is like candy; it slowly melts in your mouth sweetening every taste bud, making you wish it could last forever.

  Before The Ice Is In The Pools Emily Dickinson Before the ice is in the pools— Before the skaters go, Or any check at nightfall Is tarnished by the snow— Before the fields have finished, Before the Christmas tree, Wonder upon wonder Will arrive to me!

  The Mill on the Floss George Eliot Fine old Christmas, with the snowy hair and ruddy face, had done his duty that year in the noblest fashion, and had set off his rich gifts of warmth and colour with all the heightening contrast of frost and snow.

Christmas, 1970  Sandra M. Castillo We assemble the silver tree, our translated lives, its luminous branches, numbered to fit into its body. place its metallic roots to decorate our first Christmas. Mother finds herself opening, closing the Red Cross box she will carry into 1976 like an unwanted door prize, a timepiece, a stubborn fact, an emblem of exile measuring our days, marked by the moment of our departure, our lives no longer arranged. Somewhere, there is a photograph, a Polaroid Mother cannot remember was ever taken: I am sitting under Tia Tere’s Christmas tree, her first apartment in this, our new world: my sisters by my side, I wear a white dress, black boots, an eight-year-old’s resignation; Mae and Mitzy, age four, wear red and white snowflake sweaters and identical smiles, on this, our first Christmas, away from ourselves. The future unreal, unmade, Mother will cry into the new year with Lidia and Emerito, our elderly downstairs neighbors, who realize what we are too young

The Book Thief Markus Zusak It was the beginning of the greatest Christmas ever. Little food. No presents. But there was a snowman in their basement.

To Mrs K, On Her Sending Me an English Christmas Plum-Cake at Paris  Helena Maria Williams What crowding thoughts around me wake, What marvels in a Christmas-cake! Ah say, what strange enchantment dwells Enclosed within its odorous cells? Is there no small magician bound Encrusted in its snowy round? For magic surely lurks in this, A cake that tells of vanished bliss; A cake that conjures up to view The early scenes, when life was new; When memory knew no sorrows past, And hope believed in joys that last! — Mysterious cake, whose folds contain Life’s calendar of bliss and pain; That speaks of friends for ever fled, And wakes the tears I love to shed. Oft shall I breathe her cherished name From whose fair hand the offering came: For she recalls the artless smile Of nymphs that deck my native isle; Of beauty that we love to trace, Allied with tender, modest grace; Of those who, while abroad they roam, Retain each charm that gladdens home, And whose dear friendships can impart A Christmas

The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe CS Lewis Always winter and never Christmas  

A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens from Stave 1: Marley's Ghost ‘A merry Christmas, uncle! God save you!’ cried a cheerful voice. It was the voice of Scrooge’s nephew, who came  upon him so quickly that this was the first intimation he  had of his approach.  ‘Bah!’ said Scrooge, ‘Humbug!’ He had so heated himself with rapid walking in the fog and frost, this nephew of Scrooge’s, that he was all in a glow;  his face was ruddy and handsome; his eyes sparkled, and  his breath smoked again. ‘Christmas a humbug, uncle!’ said Scrooge’s nephew. ‘You don’t mean that, I am sure?’  ‘I do,’ said Scrooge. ‘Merry Christmas! What right have you to be merry? What reason have you to be merry? You’re poor enough.’   ‘Come, then,’ returned the nephew gaily. ‘What right have you to be dismal? What reason have you to be morose?  You’re rich enough.’

Holly  Christina Rosetti But give me holly, bold and jolly, Honest, prickly, shining holly; Pluck me holly leaf and berry For the day when I make merry.