christmas poems

Three Kings came riding from far away, Melchior and Gaspar and Baltasar; Three Wise Men out of the East were they, And they travelled by night and they slept by day, For their guide was a beautiful, wonderful star.

The star was so beautiful, large, and clear, That all the other stars of the sky Became a white mist in the atmosphere, And by this they knew that the coming was near Of the Prince foretold in the prophecy.

Three caskets they bore on their saddle bows, Three caskets of gold with golden keys; Their robes were of crimson silk with rows Of bells and pomegranates and furbelows, Their turbans like blossoming almond trees.

And so the Three Kings rode into the West, Through the dusk of night, over hill and dell, And sometimes they nodded with beard on breast And sometimes talked, as they paused to rest, With the people they met at some wayside well.

Of the child that is born, said Baltasar, Good people, I pray you, tell us the news; For we in the East have seen his star, And have ridden fast, and have ridden far, To find and worship the King of the Jews.

And the people answered, You ask in vain; We know of no king but Herod the Great! They thought the Wise Men were men insane, As they spurred their horses across the plain, Like riders in haste, and who cannot wait.

And when they came to Jerusalem, Herod the Great, who had heard this thing, Sent for the Wise Men and questioned them; And said, Go down unto Bethlehem, And bring me tidings of this new king.

So they rode away; and the star stood still, The only one in the gray of morn Yes, it stopped, it stood still of its own free will, Right over Bethlehem on the hill, The city of David where Christ was born.

And the Three Kings rode through the gate and the guard, Through the silent street, till their horses turned And neighed as they entered the great inn yard; But the windows were closed, and the doors were barred, And only a light in the stable burned.

And cradled there in the scented hay, In the air made sweet by the breath of kine, The little child in the manger lay, The child, that would be king one day Of a kingdom not human but divine.

His mother Mary of Nazareth Sat watching beside his place of rest, Watching the even flow of his breath, For the joy of life and the terror of death Were mingled together in her breast.

They laid their offerings at his feet: The gold was their tribute to a King, The frankincense, with its odor sweet, Was for the Priest, the Paraclete, The myrrh for the bodys burying.

And the mother wondered and bowed her head, And sat as still as a statue of stone; Her heart was troubled yet comforted, Remembering what the Angel had said Of an endless reign and of Davids throne.

Then the Kings rode out of the city gate, With a clatter of hoofs in proud array; But they went not back to Herod the Great, For they knew his malice and feared his hate, And returned to their homes by another way.

The city had withdrawn into itself And left at last the country to the country; When between whirls of snow not come to lie And whirls of foliage not yet laid, there drove A stranger to our yard, who looked the city, Yet did in country fashion in that there He sat and waited till he drew us out A buttoning coats to ask him who he was. He proved to be the city come again To look for something it had left behind And could not do without and keep its Christmas. He asked if I would sell my Christmas trees; My woods

The minstrels played their Christmas tune To night beneath my cottage eaves; While, smitten by a lofty moon, The encircling laurels, thick with leaves, Gave back a rich and dazzling sheen, That overpowered their natural green.

Through hill and valley every breeze Had sunk to rest with folded wings: Keen was the air, but could not freeze, Nor check, the music of the strings; So stout and hardy were the band That scraped the chords with strenuous hand.

And who but listened? till was paid Respect to every inmates claim, The greeting given, the music played In honour of each household name, Duly pronounced with lusty call, And Merry Christmas wished to all.

Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky, The flying cloud, the frosty light; The year is dying in the night; Ring out, wild bells, and let him die.

Ring out the old, ring in the new, Ring, happy bells, across the snow: The year is going, let him go; Ring out the false, ring in the true.

Ring out the grief that saps the mind, For those that here we see no more, Ring out the feud of rich and poor, Ring in redress to all mankind.

Ring out a slowly dying cause, And ancient forms of party strife; Ring in the nobler modes of life, With sweeter manners, purer laws.

Ring out the want, the care the sin, The faithless coldness of the times; Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes, But ring the fuller minstrel in.

Ring out false pride in place and blood, The civic slander and the spite; Ring in the love of truth and right, Ring in the common love of good.

Ring out old shapes of foul disease, Ring out the narrowing lust of gold; Ring out the thousand wars of old, Ring in the thousand years of peace.

Ring in the valiant man and free, The larger heart, the kindlier hand; Ring out the darkness of the land, Ring in the Christ that is to be.

The sheets were frozen hard, and they cut the naked hand; The decks were like a slide, where a seaman scarce could stand; The wind was a norwester, blowing squally off the sea; And cliffs and spouting breakers were the only things a lee.

They heard the surf a roaring before the break of day; But twas only with the peep of light we saw how ill we lay. We tumbled every hand on deck instanter, with a shout, And we gave her the maintopsl, and stood by to go about.

All day we tacked and tacked between the South Head and the North; All day we hauled the frozen sheets, and got no further forth; All day as cold as charity, in bitter pain and dread, For very life and nature we tacked from head to head.

We gave the South a wider berth, for there the tide race roared; But every tack we made we brought the North Head close aboard: Sos we saw the cliffs and houses, and the breakers running high, And the coastguard in his garden, with his glass against his eye.

The frost was on the village roofs as white as ocean foam; The good red fires were burning bright in every long shore home; The windows sparkled clear, and the chimneys volleyed out; And I vow we sniffed the victuals as the vessel went about.

The bells upon the church were rung with a mighty jovial cheer; For its just that I should tell you how (of all days in the year) This day of our adversity was blessed Christmas morn, And the house above the coastguards was the house where I was born.

O well I saw the pleasant room, the pleasant faces there, My mothers silver spectacles, my fathers silver hair; And well I saw the firelight, like a flight of homely elves, Go dancing round the china plates that stand upon the shelves.

And well I knew the talk they had, the talk that was of me, Of the shadow on the household and the son that went to sea; And O the wicked fool I seemed, in every kind of way, To be here and hauling frozen ropes on blessed Christmas Day.

They lit the high sea light, and the dark began to fall. All hands to loose top gallant sails, I heard the captain call. By the Lord, shell never stand it, our first mate, Jackson, cried. . . . Its the one way or the other, Mr. Jackson, he replied.

She staggered to her bearings, but the sails were new and good, And the ship smelt up to windward just as though she understood. As the winters day was ending, in the entry of the night, We cleared the weary headland, and passed below the light.

And they heaved a mighty breath, every soul on board but me, As they saw her nose again pointing handsome out to sea; But all that I could think of, in the darkness and the cold, Was just that I was leaving home and my folks were growing old.

Dim dawn behind the tamerisks the sky is saffron yellow As the women in the village grind the corn, And the parrots seek the riverside, each calling to his fellow That the Day, the staring Easter Day is born. Oh the white dust on the highway! Oh the stenches in the byway! Oh the clammy fog that hovers And at Home theyre making merry neath the white and scarlet berry What part have Indias exiles in their mirth?

Full day begind the tamarisks the sky is blue and staring As the cattle crawl afield beneath the yoke, And they bear One oer the field path, who is past all hope or caring, To the ghat below the curling wreaths of smoke. Call on Rama, going slowly, as ye bear a brother lowly Call on Rama he may hear, perhaps, your voice! With our hymn books and our psalters we appeal to other altars, And to day we bid good Christian men rejoice!

High noon behind the tamarisks the sun is hot above us As at Home the Christmas Day is breaking wan. They will drink our healths at dinner those who tell us how they love us, And forget us till another year be gone! Oh the toil that knows no breaking! Oh the Heimweh, ceaseless, aching! Oh the black dividing Sea and alien Plain! Youth was cheap wherefore we sold it. Gold was good we hoped to hold it, And to day we know the fulness of our gain.

Grey dusk behind the tamarisks the parrots fly together As the sun is sinking slowly over Home; And his last ray seems to mock us shackled in a lifelong tether. That drags us back hower so far we roam. Hard her service, poor her payment she is ancient, tattered raiment India, she the grim Stepmother of our kind. If a year of life be lent her, if her temples shrine we enter, The door is hut we may not look behind.

Black night behind the tamarisks the owls begin their chorus As the conches from the temple scream and bray. With the fruitless years behind us, and the hopeless years before us, Let us honor, O my brother, Christmas Day! Call a truce, then, to our labors let us feast with friends and neighbors, And be merry as the custom of our caste; For if faint and forced the laughter, and if sadness follow after, We are richer by one mocking Christmas past.

The kings they came from out the south, All dressed in ermine fine; They bore Him gold and chrysoprase, And gifts of precious wine.

The shepherds came from out the north, Their coats were brown and old; They brought Him little new born lambs They had not any gold.

The wise men came from out the east, And they were wrapped in white; The star that led them all the way Did glorify the night.

The angels came from heaven high, And they were clad with wings; And lo, they brought a joyful song The host of heaven sings.

The kings they knocked upon the door, The wise men entered in, The shepherds followed after them To hear the song begin.

The angels sang through all the night Until the rising sun, But little Jesus fell asleep Before the song was done.

In the bleak midwinter, frosty wind made moan, Earth stood hard as iron, water like a stone; Snow had fallen, snow on snow, snow on snow, In the bleak midwinter, long ago.

Our God, Heaven cannot hold Him, nor earth sustain; Heaven and earth shall flee away when He comes to reign. In the bleak midwinter a stable place sufficed The Lord God Almighty, Jesus Christ.

Enough for Him, Whom cherubim, worship night and day, Breastful of milk, and a mangerful of hay; Enough for Him, Whom angels fall before, The ox and ass and camel which adore.

Angels and archangels may have gathered there, Cherubim and seraphim thronged the air; But His mother only, in her maiden bliss, Worshipped the beloved with a kiss.

What can I give Him, poor as I am? If I were a shepherd, I would bring a lamb; If I were a Wise Man, I would do my part; Yet what I can I give Him: give my heart.

IT was the Winter wilde, While the Heavn born childe, All meanly wrapt in the rude manger lies; Nature in aw to him Had dofft her gawdy trim, With her great Master so to sympathize: It was no season then for her To wanton with the Sun her lusty Paramour.

Only with speeches fair She woos the gentle Air To hide her guilty front with innocent Snow, And on her naked shame, Pollute with sinfull blame, The Saintly Vail of Maiden white to throw, Confounded, that her Makers eyes Should look so neer upon her foul deformities.

But he her fears to cease, Sent down the meek eyd Peace, She crownd with Olive green, came softly sliding Down through the turning sphear His ready Harbinger, With Turtle wing the amorous clouds dividing, And waving wide her mirtle wand, She strikes a universall Peace through Sea and Land.

No War, or Battails sound Was heard the World around, The idle spear and shield were high up hung; The hooked Chariot stood Unstaind with hostile blood, The Trumpet spake not to the armed throng, And Kings sate still with awfull eye, As if they surely knew their sovran Lord was by.

But peacefull was the night Wherin the Prince of light His raign of peace upon the earth began: The Windes with wonder whist, Smoothly the waters kist, Whispering new joyes to the milde Ocean, Who now hath quite forgot to rave, While Birds of Calm sit brooding on the charmeed wave.

The Stars with deep amaze Stand fixt in stedfast gaze, Bending one way their pretious influence, And will not take their flight, For all the morning light, Or Lucifer that often warnd them thence; But in their glimmering Orbs did glow, Untill their Lord himself bespake, and bid them go.

And though the shady gloom Had given day her room, The Sun himself with held his wonted speed, And hid his head for shame, As his inferiour flame, The new enlightnd world no more should need; He saw a greater Sun appear Then his bright Throne, or burning Axletree could bear.

The Shepherds on the Lawn, Or ere the point of dawn, Sate simply chatting in a rustick row; Full little thought they than, That the mighty Pan Was kindly com to live with them below; Perhaps their loves, or els their sheep, Was all that did their silly thoughts so busie keep.

When such musick sweet Their hearts and ears did greet, As never was by mortall finger strook, Divinely warbled voice Answering the stringed noise, As all their souls in blisfull rapture took The Air such pleasure loth to lose, With thousand echos still prolongs each heavnly close.

Nature that heard such sound Beneath the hollow round Of Cynthias seat, the Airy region thrilling, Now was almost won To think her part was don, And that her raign had here its last fulfilling; She knew such harmony alone Could hold all Heavn and Earth in happier union.

At last surrounds their sight A Globe of circular light, That with long beams the shame fact night arrayd, The helmed Cherubim And sworded Seraphim, Are seen in glittering ranks with wings displaid, Harping in loud and solemn quire, With unexpressive notes to Heavns new born Heir.

Such musick (as tis said) Before was never made, But when of old the sons of morning sung, While the Creator Great His constellations set, And the well ballanct world on hinges hung, And cast the dark foundations deep, And bid the weltring waves their oozy channel keep.

Ring out ye Crystall sphears, Once bless our human ears, (If ye have power to touch our senses so) And let your silver chime Move in melodious time; And let the Base of Heavns deep Organ blow And with your ninefold harmony Make up full consort to thAngelike symphony.

For if such holy Song Enwrap our fancy long, Time will run back, and fetch the age of gold, And speckld vanity Will sicken soon and die, And leprous sin will melt from earthly mould, And Hell it self will pass away, And leave her dolorous mansions to the peering day.

Yea Truth, and Justice then Will down return to men, Thenameld Arras of the Rain bow wearing, And Mercy set between, Thrond in Celestiall sheen, With radiant feet the tissued clouds down stearing, And Heavn as at som festivall, Will open wide the Gates of her high Palace Hall.

But wisest Fate sayes no, This must not yet be so, The Babe lies yet in smiling Infancy, That on the bitter cross Must redeem our loss; So both himself and us to glorifie: Yet first to those ychaind in sleep, The wakefull trump of doom must thunder through the deep,

With such a horrid clang As on mount Sinai rang While the red fire, and smouldring clouds out brake: The aged Earth agast With terrour of that blast, Shall from the surface to the center shake; When at the worlds last session, The dreadfull Judge in middle Air shall spread his throne.

And then at last our bliss Full and perfect is, But now begins; for from this happy day Thold Dragon under ground In straiter limits bound, Not half so far casts his usurped sway, And wrath to see his Kingdom fail, Swindges the scaly Horrour of his foulded tail.

The Oracles are dumm, No voice or hideous humm Runs through the arched roof in words deceiving. Apollo from his shrine Can no more divine, With hollow shreik the steep of Delphos leaving. No nightly trance, or breathed spell, Inspires the pale eyd Priest from the prophetic cell.

The lonely mountains ore, And the resounding shore, A voice of weeping heard, and loud lament; From haunted spring, and dale Edgd with poplar pale, The parting Genius is with sighing sent, With flowre inwovn tresses torn The Nimphs in twilight shade of tangled thickets mourn.

In consecrated Earth, And on the holy Hearth, The Lars, and Lemures moan with midnight plaint, In Urns, and Altars round, A drear, and dying sound Affrights the Flamins at their service quaint; And the chill Marble seems to sweat, While each peculiar power forgoes his wonted seat

Peor, and Baalim, Forsake their Temples dim, With that twise batterd god of Palestine, And mooned Ashtaroth, Heavns Queen and Mother both, Now sits not girt with Tapers holy shine, The Libyc Hammon shrinks his horn, In vain the Tyrian Maids their wounded Thamuz mourn.

And sullen Moloch fled, Hath left in shadows dred, His burning Idol all of blackest hue, In vain with Cymbals ring, They call the grisly king, In dismall dance about the furnace blue; The brutish gods of Nile as fast, Isis and Orus, and the Dog Anubis hast.

Nor is Osiris seen In Memphian Grove, or Green, Trampling the unshowrd Grasse with lowings loud: Nor can he be at rest Within his sacred chest, Naught but profoundest Hell can be his shroud, In vain with Timbreld Anthems dark The sable stoled Sorcerers bear his worshipt Ark.

He feels from Judas Land The dredded Infants hand, The rayes of Bethlehem blind his dusky eyn; Nor all the gods beside, Longer dare abide, Not Typhon huge ending in snaky twine: Our Babe to shew his Godhead true, Can in his swadling bands controul the damned crew. So when the Sun in bed, Curtaind with cloudy red, Pillows his chin upon an Orient wave, The flocking shadows pale, Troop to thinfernall jail, Each fetterd Ghost slips to his severall grave, And the yellow skirted Fayes, Fly after the Night steeds, leaving their Moon lovd maze. But see the Virgin blest, Hath laid her Babe to rest. Time is our tedious Song should here have ending, Heavns youngest teemed Star, Hath fixt her polisht Car, Her sleeping Lord with Handmaid Lamp attending: And all about the Courtly Stable, Bright harnest Angels sit in order serviceable.

Sitting under the mistletoe (Pale green, fairy mistletoe), One last candle burning low, All the sleepy dancers gone, Just one candle burning on, Shadows lurking everywhere: Some one came, and kissed me there.

Tired I was; my head would go Nodding under the mistletoe (Pale green, fairy mistletoe), No footsteps came, no voice, but only, Just as I sat there, sleepy, lonely, Stooped in the still and shadowy air Lips unseen and kissed me there.