In the Sea of school work, amidst waves of worry,
With due dates compiled in a violent fury,
Stands and island where two weeks rest shall be gained,
A peculiar little island with a snowy terrain.
Where the trees are decorated with orbs...not fruits,
And children with snowballs join in cahoots,
Presents are found under many-a-tree,
But none so precious as the na-ti-vi-ty.
As if to corroborate this glorious claim,
Angels to the island did go.
Laying prostrate at the sound of His name,
Leaving their marks in the snow.
As I near the glimmering coast,
Hope revives in me anew.
My yearly voyage not nearly done,
But a place of refuge in my view.