A beautiful vintage poem

 

I'm blessed to have a wonderful collection of vintage New Hampshire Troubadour magazines from the late 1940s through 1950.  These little magazines (they measure only about 4 1/2 by 6 inches and contain about 16 pages) are treasure troves of vintage New Hampshire goodness.  Over the masthead on the first page is this statement:

The New Hampshire Troubadour comes to you every month singing the praises of New Hampshire, a state whose beauty and opportunities should tempt you to come here and share those good things that make life here so delightful.  

That is how things used to be, friends.  The magazine was produced by the State Planning and Development Commission and a subscription cost 50¢ per year.

The photo at the top of the post was the inside front cover of the December 1947 issue.  Oh, what a beautiful reminder of days gone by!  The poem I am going to share -- The Old, Old Joys by Avis Turner French -- comes from this issue.

THE OLD, OLD JOYS

I want for Christmas more than anything,
The old, old joys, the folks I love all near
Beneath the treasured roof of home once more
As we have been for every happy year.
To gather Christmas Eve for gifts of love,
To laugh for sheer delight believing this,
The deepest joys of life are simple ways
Like words of tenderness, a gentle kiss.
I want the atmosphere of mystery
As much as when a child, the tinsel glow,
To sing the songs that never will grow old,
How Christ had come to bless us long ago.
On Christmas day I wish to share with those
Less fortunate than I, to freely give,
For only by the giving of one's best
Does one grow richer, learning how to live.
At last I want to climb a snow-clad hill
To watch the miracles of earth and sky,
To read within the firmament His law,
That good triumphs, that love can never die.
I want these joys, oh, more than anything.

-- Avis Turner French

Isn't that beautiful?  It speaks so very much of what my childhood Christmases were like.  My grandmother's farmhouse, where many of my Christmas memories are centered, is still standing.  It looks somewhat different inside, but some things are the same.  My own childhood home is still standing, but barely.  It looks as if it is dying by inches as it is dismantled bit by bit.  At the end an excavator will come in and knock it down.  That stings a bit, but I am oh, so thankful for my memories.

Yet I want these joys -- the ones the poet spoke about so eloquently -- for others too.  So many folks today have never experienced a Christmas like this.  So much has been taken from us as a society over the years.  I certainly pray that we will once again learn how to live,  to give our best, to point others to the timeless truths of God's Word.  Many of us may never again gather "beneath the treasured roof of home" -- but we can still share the "deepest joys of life" with our loved ones.  I hope that you all enjoyed this poem as much as I did!