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Christmas omnipresent by Lee Hunt. Christmas
comes, He comes, He comes,

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ushered with a rain of plums.
Hollies in the windows greet him. Schools

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come driving posts to meet him.
Gifts precede him, Bells proclaim him.

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Every mouth delights to name him.
Wet and cold and wind and dark make

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him but the warmer mark. And
yet he comes not one embodied universals,

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the blithe Godhead. And in every
festal house presence hath ubiquitouse curtains, those

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snug room enfolders hang upon his million
shoulders, and he has a million eyes

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a fire, and eats a million
pies, and is very merry, and

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wise, very wise, and very
merry, and loves a kiss beneath the

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berry. Then full many a shape
hath he all in said ubiquity? Now

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is he a green array, And
now an e and now a day.

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Now he's town, gone out of
town, and now a feast in civic

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gown, And now the pantomime and
clown with a crack upon the crown,

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and all sorts of tumbles down.
And then he's music in the night,

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and the money gotten by it.
He's a man that can't write verses,

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bringing some to oap your purses.
He's a turkey, he's a goose,

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he's oranges unfit for use. He's
a kiss that loves to grow underneath the

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mistletoe. And he's forfeits, cards
and wassails, and a king and queen

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with vassals, all the quizzes of
the time, drawn and quartered with a

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rhyme. And then, for their
revival's sake, lo, he's an enormous

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cake with the sugar on the top, seen before in many a shop,

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where the boys could gaze forever.
They think the cake's so very clever.

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Then some morning, in the lurch, leaving Romps, he goes to church,

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looking very grave and thankful, after
which he's just as prankful, now

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a saint and now a sinner.
But above all he's a dinner. He's

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a dinner where you see everybody's family, beef and pudding and mince pies,

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and little boys with laughing eyes,
whom their seniors ask arch questions, feigning

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fears of indigestions, as if they
forsooth the old ones hadn't privately tenfold ones.

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He's a dinner and a fire heaped
beyond your heart's desire heaped with log

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and baked with coals till it roasts
your very souls and your cheek the fire

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outstairs, and you all push back
your chairs, and the mirth becomes too

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great, and you all sit up
too late, nodding, all with too

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much head, and so go off
to too much bed o, plethora of

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beef and bliss, Monkish feaster,
sly of kiss, Southern soul in body,

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Dutch glorious time of great too much, too much heat and too much

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noise, too much babblement of boys, too much eating, too much,

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drinking, too much everything but thinking
solely bent to laugh and stuff and trample

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upon base. Enough, Oh right, is thy instructive praise of the wealth

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of Nature's ways. Write thy most
unthrifty glee and pious, thy mince piety.

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For behold, great Nature's self builds
her no abstemious shelf, but provides

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her love is such for all her
own great good. Too much too much

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grass and too much tree, too
much air and land and sea, too

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much seed of fruit and flower and
fish, an unimagined dower in whose single

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row shall be life enough to stock
the sea. Endless ichthyophogy every instant through

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the day. Worlds of life are
thrown away, worlds of life and worlds

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of pleasure, not for lavishment of
treasure, but because she's so immensely rich

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and loves us so intensely. She
would have us once for all wake at

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her benignant call, and all grow
wise, and all lay down strife and

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jealousy and frown, and like the
sons of one great mother, share and

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be blessed with one another. End
of Christmas Omnipresent by Lee Hunt