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.