Tomte's Riddle from December Celebrations by Bart the Bard

Cold is the night, and still, and strange, Stars they glitter and shimmer.
All are asleep in the lonely grange Under the midnight's glimmer.
On glides the moon in gulfs profound; Snow on the firs and pines around,
Snow on the roofs is gleaming. All but the Tomte are dreaming.

Gray he stands at the barnyard door, Gray by the drifts of white there,
Looks, as he oft has looked before, Up at the moon so bright there;
Looks at the woods, where the fir-trees tall. Shut the Grange in with their dusky wall;
Ponders — some problem vexes, Some strange riddle perplexes —

Passes his hand o'er beard and hair, Shaking his head and cap then:
" Nay, that riddle's too hard, I swear, I'll ne'er guess it! Soon nor then. "
But, with a habit, he soon drives out: All such thoughts of disturbing doubt,
These thoughts were not what he came for, but he makes his way to that same door.

So has he seen them, sire and son, Year by year in that room there
Sleep first as children every one. Ah, but whence did they come there?
This generation to that was heir, Blossomed, grew old, and was gone — but where?
That is the hopeless, burning; Riddle forever returning.

Cold is the night, and still, and strange, Stars they glitter and shimmer.
All yet sleep in the lonely grange Soundly till mornin’ shall glimmer.
Now sinks the moon in night profound; Snow on the firs and pines around,
Snow on the roofs is gleaming. All but the Tomte are dreaming.

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