Hi, I'm Andrew Kern, sitting in for David Kernan.

I have the great good privilege of reading to you one of my favorite Christmas poems.

This is called The Journey of the Magi, or the Magi, or even the Magi.

Anyway, The Journey of the Mage by T.S. Eliot.

I get to read it to you on the daily poem.

A cold coming we had of it.

Just the worst time of the year for a journey.

And such a long journey.

The ways deep and the weather's sharp, the very dead of winter.

And the camel's galled, sore-footed, refractory, lying down in the melting snow.

There were times we regretted the summer palaces on slopes, the terraces, and the silken girls bringing sherbet.

Then the camelmen cursing and grumbling and running away and wanting their liquor and women,

and the night fires going out, and the lack of shelters, and the city is hostile, and the town's unfriendly, and the village is dirty, and the lack of shelters and the city is hostile and the town's unfriendly and

the village is dirty and charging high prices a hard time we had of it at the end we prefer to travel all

night sleeping and snatches with the voices singing in our ears saying saying that this was all folly.

Then at dawn we came to a temperate valley, wet below the snowline, smelling of vegetation,

with a running stream and a watermill beating the darkness, and three trees on the low sky,

and an old white horse galloped away in the meadow.

Then we came to a tavern with vine leaves over the lintel,

six hands at an open door dicing for pieces of silver,

and feet kicking the empty wine skins.

But there was no information, and so we continued and arrived at evening.

...