Christmas-Days are still in store:—
Will they change—steal faded hither?
Or come fresh as heretofore,
Summering all our winter weather?
Surely they will keep their bloom
All the countless pacing ages:
In the country whence they come
Children only are the sages!
Hither, every hour and year,
Children come to cure our oldness—
Oft, alas, to gather sear
Unbelief, and earthy boldness!
Men they grow and women cold,
Selfish, passionate, and plaining!
Ever faster they grow old:—
On the world, ah, eld is gaining!
Child, whose childhood ne’er departs!
Jesus, with the perfect father!
Drive the age from parents’ hearts;
To thy heart the children gather.
Send thy birth into our souls,
With its grand and tender story.
Hark! the gracious thunder rolls!—
News to men! to God old glory!