Friday, December 31, 2010

The Darkling Thrush / Thomas Hardy

  
The Darkling Thrush

I leant upon a coppice gate
    When Frost was spectre-gray,
And Winter's dregs made desolate
    The weakening eye of day.
The tangled bine-stems scored the sky
    Like strings of broken lyres,
And all mankind that haunted nigh
    Had sought their household fires.

The land's sharp features seemed to be
    The Century's corpse outleant,
His crypt the cloudy canopy,
    The wind his death-lament.
The ancient pulse of germ and birth
    Was shrunken hard and dry,
And every spirit upon earth
    Seemed fervourless as I.

At once a voice arose among
    The bleak twigs overhead
In a full-hearted evensong
    Of joy illimited;
An aged thrush, frail, gaunt, and small,
    In blast-beruffled plume,
Had chosen thus to fling his soul
    Upon the growing gloom.

So little cause for carolings
    Of such ecstatic sound
Was written on terrestrial things
    Afar or nigh around,
That I could think there trembled through
    His happy good-night air
Some blessed Hope, whereof he knew
    And I was unaware.

~~
Thomas Hardy (1840-1928), 1900
From Poems of the Past and Present, 1901

[Poem is in the public domain in Canada, the United States, and the European Union]

Thursday, December 30, 2010

Old Christmas / Mary Howitt

         
Old Christmas

Now he who knows old Christmas,
   He knows a carle of worth;
For he is as good a fellow,
   As any upon the earth.

He comes warm cloaked and coated,
   And buttoned up to the chin,
And soon as he comes a-nigh the door,
   We open and let him in.

We know that he will not fail us,
   So we sweep the hearth up clean;
We set him in the old armed chair,
   And a cushion whereon to lean.

And with sprigs of holly and ivy
   We make the house look gay,
Just out of an old regard to him,
   For it was his ancient way.

We broach the strong ale barrel,
   And bring out wine and meat;
And thus have all things ready,
   Our dear old friend to greet

And soon the time wears round,
   The good old carle we see,
Coming a-near; for a creditor
   Less punctual is than he!

He comes with a cordial voice
   That does one good to hear;
He shakes one heartily by the hand,
   As he hath done many a year.

Aud after the little children
   He asks in a cheerful tone,
Jack, Kate, and little Annie,
   He remembers them every one!

What a fine old fellow he is,
   With his faculties all as clear,
And his heart as warm and light
   As a man in his fortieth year!

What a fine old fellow, in troth!
   Not one of your griping elves,
Who, with plenty of money to spare,
   Think only about themselves!

Not he! for he loveth the children;
   And holiday begs for all;
And comes, with his pockets full of gifts,
   For the great ones and the small!

With a present for every servant –
   For in giving he doth not tire  –
From the red-faced, jovial butler
   To the girl by the kitchen fire.

And he tells us witty old stories,
   And singeth with might and main
And we talk of the old man's visit
   Till the day that he comes again!

Oh, he is a kind old fellow,
   And though that beef be dear,
He giveth the parish paupers
   A good dinner once a year!

And all the workhouse children,
   He sets them down in a row,
And giveth them rare plum-pudding,
   And two pence a piece also.

Oh, could you have seen those paupers,
   Have heard those children young,
You would wish with them that Christmas
   Came oft and tarried long!

He must be a rich old fellow,
   What money he gives away!
There is not a lord in England
   Could equal him any day.

Good luck unto old Christmas,
  And long life, let us sing,
For he doth more good unto the poor
  Than many a crownèd king.

---
Mary Howitt 
from Hymns and Fireside Verses, 1839

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

Mary Howitt biography

Wednesday, December 29, 2010

Minstrels / William Wordsworth

       
To the Rev. Dr. Wordsworth [excerpt]

The minstrels played their Christmas tune
Tonight 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 inmate's claim,
The greeting given, the music played
In honour of each household name,
Duly pronounced with lusty call,
And "Merry Christmas" wished to all.

O Brother! I revere the choice
That took thee from thy native hills;
And it is given thee to rejoice;
Though public care full often tills
(Heaven only witness of the toil)
A barren and ungrateful soil.

Yet, would that thou, with me and mine,
Hadst heard this never-failing rite;
And seen on other faces shine
A true revival of the light
Which Nature and these Rustic Powers,
In simple childhood, spread through ours!

~~
William Wordsworth (1770-1850), Christmastide, 1819
from The River Duddon, 1820

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

William Wordsworth biography

Tuesday, December 28, 2010

Mistletoe / Walter de la Mare

       
Mistletoe

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.

~~
Walter de la Mare
From Peacock Pie, 1913

[Poem is in the public domain in Canada and the United States]

Walter de la Mare biography

Monday, December 27, 2010

The Oxen / Thomas Hardy

    
The Oxen

Christmas Eve, and twelve of the clock.
      "Now they are all on their knees,"
An elder said as we sat in a flock
      By the embers in hearthside ease.

We pictured the meek mild creatures where
      They dwelt in their strawy pen,
Nor did it occur to one of us there
      To doubt they were kneeling then.

So fair a fancy few would weave
      In these years! Yet, I feel,
If someone said on Christmas Eve,
      "Come; see the oxen kneel,

"In the lonely barton by yonder coomb
      Our childhood used to know,"
I should go with him in the gloom,
      Hoping it might be so.

~~
Thomas Hardy (1840-1928)
from Moments of Vision, 1917

[Poem is in the public domain in Canada, the United States, and the European Union]

Thomas Hardy biography

Sunday, December 26, 2010

Christmas Bells / Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

       
Christmas Bells

I heard the bells on Christmas Day
Their old, familiar carols play,
      And wild and sweet
      The words repeat
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

And thought how, as the day had come,
The belfries of all Christendom
      Had rolled along
      The unbroken song
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

Till, ringing, singing on its way
The world revolved from night to day,
      A voice, a chime,
      A chant sublime
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

Then from each black, accursed mouth
The cannon thundered in the South,
      And with the sound
      The carols drowned
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

It was as if an earthquake rent
The hearth-stones of a continent,
      And made forlorn
      The households born
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

And in despair I bowed my head;
‘There is no peace on earth,’ I said;
      ‘For hate is strong,
      And mocks the song
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!’

Then pealed the bells more loud and deep:
‘God is not dead; nor doth he sleep!
      The Wrong shall fail,
      The Right prevail,
With peace on earth, good-will to men!’

---
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807-1882) 
Christmas 1864
from Household Poems, 1865

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]


Saturday, December 25, 2010

When Mary the Mother Kissed the Child /
Charles G.D. Roberts

       
When Mary the Mother Kissed the Child

When Mary the Mother kissed the Child
And night on the wintry hills grew mild,
And the strange star swung from the courts of air
To serve at a manger with kings in prayer,
Then did the day of the simple kin
And the unregarded folk begin.

When Mary the Mother forgot the pain,
In the stable of rock began love's reign.
When that new light on their grave eyes broke
The oxen were glad and forgot their yoke;
And the huddled sheep in the far hill fold
Stirred in their sleep and felt no cold.

When Mary the Mother gave of her breast
To the poor inn's latest and lowliest guest,—
The God born out of the woman's side,—
The Babe of Heaven by Earth denied,—
Then did the hurt ones cease to moan,
And the long-supplanted came to their own.

When Mary the Mother felt faint hands
Beat at her bosom with life's demands,
And nought to her were the kneeling kings,
The serving star and the half-seen wings,
Then there was the little of earth made great,
And the man came back to the God's estate.

---
Charles G.D. Roberts (1860-1943)
from The Book of the Rose, 1903

[Poem is in the public domain in Canada, the United States, and the European Union]

Charles G.D. Roberts biography