Iโve sent out my circular letters to friends and family across the world and received a few in returned. We exchanged news about new homes and old bones, about holidays enjoyed and new trips planned.
This one was written by the great American poet Robert Frost about a man who came to his farm to buy Christmas treesโฆ
The city had withdrawn into itself
And left at last the country to the country;
When between whirls of snow not come to lie
And whirls of foliage not yet laid, there drove
A stranger to our yard, who looked the city,
Yet did in country fashion in that there
He sat and waited till he drew us out
A-buttoning coats to ask him who he was.
He proved to be the city come again
To look for something it had left behind
And could not do without and keep its Christmas.
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