The Poem that Wrote Christmas
How a 19th-century poem made our 20th-century Christmas sparkle with magic.
Every Christmas Eve, before we set the milk and cookies out for Santa, and my youngest sister placed a bag of carrots on the fireplace surround for the reindeer, my parents gathered us in the living room to read ’Twas the Night Before Christmas.
When I was young, I didn’t realize this story was the heart of our Christmas Eve tradition. Back then, it was the moment when everything slowed down, and magic tiptoed into the room. My parents made a big show of flipping a quarter to see who “got to” read it to us, and we kids would hang on every word. By the time they reached “…and to all a good night,” we were fully convinced we heard hooves on the roof.
A cup of peppermint stick hot chocolate later, we’d be herded off to our bedrooms, told to stay put until morning. Surprisingly, we did—resisting the urge to tiptoe to the end of the hallway, where the lights from the tree reflected a kaleidoscope of color on the walls and where, we were certain, we’d find Santa Claus piling presents in an ever-expanding circle. Every Christmas morning, we’d wait impatiently for our parents to get up and take us down the hallway to the tree to see what Santa had left. Those moments, before we beheld the bounty our parents worked so hard to provide (while unselfishly giving credit to St. Nick), were filled with anticipation and unbridled joy. Even now, I can remember the squeals of my younger siblings (okay, yes, I squealed too), the sound of wrapping paper being demolished, the twinkle of lights, and that unmistakable feeling that in that moment, anything was possible.
It’s funny how one little poem could shape so many Christmas traditions. Officially titled A Visit from St. Nicholas, the poem first appeared anonymously in the Troy Sentinel newspaper in 1823. Years later, Clement Clarke Moore, a New York scholar, was credited with writing it, though some believe another poet, Henry Livingston Jr., was the true author. Livingston’s descendants insisted that he recited the poem to his children years before it appeared in print, and handwriting analyses have fueled the debate ever since. To this day, true authorship remains an open question.
But the poem’s impact certainly isn’t in question. Before its publication, Santa Claus was more folklore than friend, a mix of European legends and regional variations. In the Netherlands, Sinterklaas, based on Saint Nicholas of Myra, arrived from Spain by steamboat in mid-November, and rode a white horse across rooftops, leaving small gifts or candy for the children. Dutch immigrants brought Sinterklaas to America in the 1700s, where his name evolved into “Santa Claus.”
Italy’s holiday gift-giver isn’t a man in red at all. It’s La Befana, a kindly old witch who rides a broomstick and delivers gifts on Epiphany Eve (January 5). According to legend, she declined the Wise Men’s invitation to visit the baby Jesus but later regretted it. She has been delivering gifts to children ever since, hoping to find him.
In Germany, St. Nicholas (Sankt Nikolaus) visits children on December 6 (St. Nicholas Day), leaving sweets and gifts in polished shoes left by the door. His fearsome companion, Krampus, punishes naughty children. The Krampus tradition dates to pre-Christian Alpine folklore and is likely the inspiration for the infamous “naughty or nice” list.
A Visit from St. Nicholas transformed Santa Claus into the jolly, red-suited figure we know today. It described him as plump, rosy-cheeked, and driving a reindeer-led sleigh. It gave us the names of eight reindeer (Dasher, Dancer, Prancer, Vixen, Comet, Cupid, Donder, and Blitzen, although “Donder” later evolved to “Donner”) and cemented Christmas Eve as the magical night of his visit.
What makes the poem so enduring is that it didn’t just describe Christmas magic; it created it. When I read it now, I hear my parents’ voices, reading the poem with a storyteller’s flair that made us believe every word. I see my siblings and me in our pajamas, buzzing with excitement. I feel the last few minutes before sleep, when imagination and belief blurred into one perfect moment.
That’s the real gift of traditions like this one. They remind us that Christmas isn’t about the number of presents under the tree; it’s about the stories, rituals, and memories that bring us together. It’s the familiar words spoken year after year, the same words that once made us believe that Santa was coming down our chimney, that reindeer could fly, and that every red light in the sky on Christmas Eve could be Rudolph’s nose.
And honestly, maybe they still can.
