Ye who have nourished sadness In this fast fading year, Estranged from joy and gladness, Come gather hopeful here: No more let useless sorrow Pursue you night and morrow; Come join in our embraces Beneath the holly bough; Take heart, uncloud your faces Beneath the holly bough.
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.
Between the moonlight and the fire, In winter evenings long ago, What ghosts I raised at your desire, To make your leaping blood run slow! How old, how grave, how wise we grow! What Christmas ghost can make us chill-- Save these that troop in mournful row, The ghosts we all can raise at will?
The beasts can talk in barn and byre On Christmas-eve, old legends know. As one by one the years retire, We men fall silent then, I trow-- Such sights has memory to show, Such voices from the distance thrill. Ah me! they come with Christmas snow, The ghosts we all can raise at will.
Oh, children of the village choir, Your carols on the midnight throw! Oh, bright across the mist and mire, Ye ruddy hearths of Christmas glow! Beat back the shades, beat down the woe, Renew the strength of mortal will; Be welcome, all, to come or go, The ghosts we all can raise at will.
Friend, _sursum corda_, soon or slow We part, like guests who've joyed their fill; Forget them not, nor mourn them so, The ghosts we all can raise at will!