  In holly hedges starving birds Silently mourn the setting year; Upright like silver-plated swords The flags stand in the frozen mere. The mistletoe we still adore Upon the twisted hawthorn grows: In antique gardens hellebore Puts forth its blushing Christmas rose. Shrivell’d and purple, cheek by jowl, The hips and haws hang drearily; Roll’d in a ball the sulky owl Creeps far into his hollow tree. In abbeys and cathedrals dim The birth of Christ is acted o’er; The kings of Cologne worship him, Balthazar, Jasper, Melchior. The shepherds in the field at night Beheld an angel glory-clad. And shrank away with sore afright. “Be not afraid,” the angel bade. “I bring good news to king and clown, To you here crouching on the sward; For there is born in David’s town A Saviour, which is Christ the Lord. “Behold the babe is swathed, and laid Within a manger.” Straight there stood Beside the angel all arrayed A heavenly multitude. “Glory to God,” they sang; “and peace, Good pleasure among men.” The wondrous message of release! Glory to God again! Hush! Hark! the waits, far up the street! A distant, ghostly charm unfolds, Of magic music wild and sweet, Anemones and clarigolds. From “Fleet Street Eclogues.” Included by permission of Dodd, Mead and Company. |
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