Christmas. 1917
A key no thief can steal, no time can rust;
A faery door, adventurous and golden;
A palace, perfect to our eyes — Ah must
Our eyes be holden ?
Has the past died before this present sin?
Has this most cruel age already stoned
To martyrdom that magic Day, within
Those halls enthroned ?
No. Through the dancing of the young spring rain,
Through the faint summer, and the autumn's burning.
Our still immortal Day has heard again
Our steps returning.
~~
Stella Benson (1892-1933)
from Twenty, 1918
[Poem is in the public domain in Canada, the United States, and the European Union]
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