Alfred Lord Tennyson (1809-1892)

With trembling fingers did we weave
    The holly round the Christmas hearth;
    A rainy cloud possess’d the earth,
And sadly fell our Christmas-eve.

At our old pastimes in the hall
    We gambol’d, making vain pretence
    Of gladness, with an awful sense
Of one mute Shadow watching all.

We paused: the winds were in the beech:
    We heard them sweep the winter land;
    And in a circle hand-in-hand
Sat silent, looking each at each.

Then echo-like our voices rang;
    We sung, tho’ every eye was dim,
    A merry song we sang with him
Last year: impetuously we sang:

We ceased: a gentler feeling crept
    Upon us: surely rest is meet:
    ‘They rest,’ we said, ‘their sleep is sweet,’
And silence follow’d, and we wept.

Our voices took a higher range;
    Once more we sang: ‘They do not die
    Nor lose their mortal sympathy,
Nor change to us, although they change;

‘Rapt from the fickle and the frail
    With gather’d power, yet the same,
    Pierces the keen seraphic flame
From orb to orb, from veil to veil.’

Rise, happy morn, rise, holy morn,
    Draw forth the cheerful day from night:
    O Father, touch the east, and light
The light that shone when Hope was born.

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