[Editor: A poem by Frida Allen Phillips. Published in The Methodist, 15 January 1938.]
No level stretch of snowy white
Greets our awak’ning eyes,
But under Summer’s shimmering sun
Our Christmas landscape lies.
No brightly breasted robin waits
Our kindly crumbs to share.
But birds in many a full-leaved tree
Are warbling everywhere.
We need no cheering Yule-tide log,
But windows, open wide,
Await the welcome southern breeze
To cool the countryside.
And yet the songs our fathers sang
Of Christmas in the north,
Carols of Noel, and the night
Good Wenceclas went forth.
To us, their kindred of the south,
The ancient message bring
And we, with them, in one great choir
The Babe of Bethlehem sing.
— Frida Allen Phillips.
(Written for our Christmas issue; pressure upon space prevented earlier publication. — Ed.)
The Methodist (Sydney, NSW), 15 January 1938, p. 2