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Title: The Dawn Of Christmas
Author: Harrison S. Morris [
More Titles by Morris]
Acold it is and middle night:
The moon looks down the snow,
As if an angel, clad in white,
Carried her lanthorn so
That, going forth the streets of light,
She made an earthward glow.
A drift enfolds the chapel eaves
Like downy coverlet;
And, garnered into whited sheaves,
The graves are harvest-set
Waiting the yeoman. All the panes
Are rich with rimy fret.
The sexton mounts the outer stair
Where chilly sparrows cower--
And bells ring down the winter air
From forth the snowy tower;
For, muffled deep in drift, the clock
Hath struck the Christmas hour.
And over barn, and buried stack,
And out the naked copse,
And where the owl sits plump and black
Amid the chestnut tops--
The branches echo back the bells,
Like dulcet organ stops.
For blast of wind and creak of bough
And rustle of the frost,
And winter's inner voice--avow
The holy hour is crossed,
And far, mysterious music sounds,
Sweet like a harping host.
[The end]
Harrison S. Morris's poem: The Dawn Of Christmas
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