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Favorite Christmas Poems

Dover Publications, Inc.

    Gabriel's Message


    SABINE BARING-GOULD (1834–1924)

    The angel Gabriel from heaven came,
    His wings as drifted snow, his eyes as flame;
    "All hail," said he, "thou lowly maiden Mary,
    Most highly favoured lady,
    Gloria!

    "For know a blessèd mother thou shalt be,
    All generations laud and honour thee,
    Thy son shall be Emmanuel, by seers foretold.
    Most highly favoured lady,
    Gloria!"

    Then gentle Mary meekly bowed her head,
    "To me be as it pleaseth God," she said,
    "My soul shall laud and magnify his holy name."
    Most highly favoured lady,
    Gloria!

    Of her, Emmanuel, the Christ, was born
    In Bethlehem, all on a Christmas morn,
    And Christian folk throughout the world will ever say,
    "Most highly favoured lady,
    Gloria!"


    Noel: Christmas Eve, 1913


    Pax hominibus benae voluntatis
    ROBERT BRIDGES (1844–1930)


    A frosty Christmas Eve
    when the stars were shining
    Fared I forth alone
    where westward falls the hill,
    And from many a village
    in the water'd valley
    Distant music reach'd me
    peals of bells aringing:
    The constellated sounds
    ran sprinkling on earth's floor
    As the dark vault above
    with stars was spangled o'er.

    Then sped my thought to keep
    that first Christmas of all
    When the shepherds watching
    by their folds ere the dawn
    Heard music in the fields
    and marveling could not tell
    Whether it were angels
    or the bright stars singing.

    Now blessed be the tow'rs
    that crown England so fair
    That stand up strong in prayer
    unto God for our souls:
    Blessed be their founders
    (said I) an' our country folk
    Who are ringing for Christ
    in the belfries to-night
    With arms lifted to clutch
    the rattling ropes that race
    Into the dark above
    and the mad romping din.

    But to me heard afar
    it was starry music
    Angels' song, comforting
    as the comfort of Christ
    When he spake tenderly
    to his sorrowful flock:
    The old words came to me
    by the riches of time
    Mellow'd and transfigured
    as I stood on the hill
    Heark'ning in the aspect
    of th' eternal silence.


    O Little Town of Bethlehem


    BISHOP PHILLIPS BROOKS (1835–1893)

    O little town of Bethlehem,
    How still we see thee lie!
    Above thy deep and dreamless sleep
    The silent stars go by.
    Yet in thy dark streets shineth
    The everlasting light;
    The hopes and fears of all the years
    Are met in thee to-night.

    O morning stars, together
    Proclaim the holy birth,
    And praises sing to God the King,
    And peace to men on earth;
    For Christ is born of Mary;
    And, gathered all above,
    While mortals sleep, the angels keep
    Their watch of wondering love.

    How silently, how silently,
    The wondrous gift is given!
    So God imparts to human hearts
    The blessings of his heaven.
    No ear may hear his coming;
    But in this world of sin,
    Where meek souls will receive him, still
    The dear Christ enters in.

    Where children pure and happy
    Pray to the blessèd Child,
    Where misery cries out to thee,
    Son of the mother mild;
    Where charity stands watching
    And faith holds wide the door,
    The dark night wakes, the glory breaks,
    And Christmas comes once more.

    O holy Child of Bethlehem,
    Descend to us, we pray;
    Cast out our sin, and enter in,
    Be born in us to-day.
    We hear the Christmas Angels
    The great glad tidings tell:
    O come to us, abide with us,
    Our Lord Emmanuel.


    Christmas Song


    BLISS CARMAN (1861–1929)

    Above the weary waiting world,
    Asleep in chill despair,
    There breaks a sound of joyous bells
    Upon the frosted air.
    And o'er the humblest rooftree, lo,
    A star is dancing on the snow.

    What makes the yellow star to dance
    Upon the brink of night?
    What makes the breaking dawn to glow
    So magically bright,—
    And all the earth to be renewed
    With infinite beatitude?

    The singing bells, the throbbing star,
    The sunbeams on the snow,
    And the awakening heart that leaps
    New ecstasy to know,—
    They all are dancing in the morn
    Because a little child is born.


    Christmas Greeting from a Fairy to a Child


    LEWIS CARROLL (1832–1898)

    Lady, dear, if Fairies may
    For a moment lay aside
    Cunning tricks and elfish play,
    'Tis at happy Christmas-tide.

    We have heard the children say—
    Gentle children, whom we love—
    Long ago on Christmas Day,
    Came a message from above.

    Still, as Christmas-tide comes round,
    They remember it again—
    Echo still the joyful sound
    "Peace on earth, good-will to men!"

    Yet the hearts must childlike be
    Where such heavenly guests abide;
    Unto children, in their glee,
    All the year is Christmas-tide!

    Thus, forgetting tricks and play
    For a moment, Lady dear,
    We would wish you, if we may,
    Merry Christmas, glad New Year!


    A Christmas Carol


    G. K. CHESTERTON (1874–1936)

    The Christ-child lay on Mary's lap,
    His hair was like a light.
    (O weary, weary were the world,
    But here is all aright.)

    The Christ-child lay on Mary's breast,
    His hair was like a star.
    (O stern and cunning are the kings,
    But here the true hearts are.)

    The Christ-child lay on Mary's heart,
    His hair was like a fire.
    (O weary, weary is the world,
    But here the world's desire.)

    The Christ-child stood at Mary's knee,
    His hair was like a crown,
    And all the flowers looked up at him,
    And all the stars looked down.


    The House of Christmas


    G. K. CHESTERTON (1874–1936)

    There fared a mother driven forth
    Out of an inn to roam;
    In the place where she was homeless
    All men are at home.
    The crazy stable close at hand,
    With shaking timber and shifting sand,
    Grew a stronger thing to abide and stand
    Than the square stones of Rome.

    For men are homesick in their homes,
    And strangers under the sun,
    And they lay their heads in a foreign land
    Whenever the day is done.
    Here we have battle and blazing eyes,
    And chance and honour and high surprise,
    But our homes are under miraculous skies
    Where the yule tale was begun.

    A Child in a foul stable,
    Where the beasts feed and foam;
    Only where He was homeless
    Are you and I at home;
    We have hands that fashion and heads that know,
    But our hearts we lost—how long ago!
    In a place no chart nor ship can show
    Under the sky's dome.

    This world is wild as an old wives' tale,
    And strange the plain things are,
    The earth is enough and the air is enough
    For our wonder and our war;
    But our rest is as far as the fire-drake swings
    And our peace is put in impossible things
    Where clashed and thundered unthinkable wings
    Round an incredible star.

    To an open house in the evening
    Home shall men come,
    To an older place than Eden
    And a taller town than Rome.
    To the end of the way of the wandering star,
    To the things that cannot be and that are,
    To the place where God was homeless
    And all men are at home.


    December


    JOHN CLARE (1793–1864)

    Glad Christmas comes, and every hearth
    Makes room to give him welcome now,
    E'en want will dry its tears in mirth,
    And crown him with a holly bough;
    Though tramping 'neath a winter sky,
    O'er snowy paths and rimy stiles,
    The housewife sets her spinning by
    To bid him welcome with her smiles.

    Each house is swept the day before,
    And windows stuck with ever-greens,
    The snow is besom'd from the door,
    And comfort crowns the cottage scenes.
    Gilt holly, with its thorny pricks,
    And yew and box, with berries small,
    These deck the unused candlesticks,
    And pictures hanging by the wall.

    Neighbours resume their annual cheer,
    Wishing, with smiles and spirits high,
    Glad Christmas and a happy year,
    To every morning passer-by;
    Milkmaids their Christmas journeys go,
    Accompanied with favour'd swain;
    And children pace the crumping snow,
    To taste their granny's cake again.

    The shepherd, now no more afraid,
    Since custom doth the chance bestow,
    Starts up to kiss the giggling maid
    Beneath the branch of mistletoe
    That 'neath each cottage beam is seen,
    With pearl-like berries shining gay;
    The shadow still of what hath been,
    Which fashion yearly fades away.

    The singing wates, a merry throng,
    At early morn, with simple skill,
    Yet imitate the angels song,
    And chant their Christmas ditty still;
    And, 'mid the storm that dies and swells
    By fits—in hummings softly steals
    The music of the village bells,
    Ringing round their merry peals.

    When this is past, a merry crew,
    Bedeck'd in masks and ribbons gay,
    The "Morris-dance," their sports renew,
    And act their winter evening play.
    The clown turn'd king, for penny-praise,
    Storms with the actor's strut and swell;
    And Harlequin, a laugh to raise,
    Wears his hunch-back and tinkling bell.

    And oft for pence and spicy ale,
    With winter nosegays pinn'd before,
    The wassail-singer tells her tale,
    And drawls her Christmas carols o'er.
    While 'prentice boy, with ruddy face,
    And rime-bepowder'd, dancing locks,
    From door to door with happy pace,
    Runs round to claim his "Christmas box."

    The block upon the fire is put,
    To sanction custom's old desires;
    And many a fagot's bands are cut,
    For the old farmers' Christmas fires;
    Where loud-tongued Gladness joins the throng,
    And Winter meets the warmth of May,
    Till feeling soon the heat too strong,
    He rubs his shins, and draws away.

    While snows the window-panes bedim,
    The fire curls up a sunny charm,
    Where, creaming o'er the pitcher's rim,
    The flowering ale is set to warm;
    Mirth, full of joy as summer bees,
    Sits there, its pleasures to impart,
    And children, 'tween their parent's knees,
    Sing scraps of carols o'er by heart.

    And some, to view the winter weathers,
    Climb up the window-seat with glee,
    Likening the snow to falling feathers,
    In Fancy's infant ecstasy;
    Laughing, with superstitious love,
    O'er visions wild that youth supplies,
    Of people pulling geese above,
    And keeping Christmas in the skies.

    As tho' the homestead trees were drest,
    In lieu of snow, with dancing leaves;
    As tho' the sun-dried martin's nest,
    Instead of i'cles hung the eaves;
    The children hail the happy day—
    As if the snow were April's grass,
    And pleas'd, as 'neath the warmth of May,
    Sport o'er the water froze to glass.

    Thou day of happy sound and mirth,
    That long with childish memory stays,
    How blest around the cottage hearth
    I met thee in my younger days!
    Harping, with rapture's dreaming joys,
    On presents which thy coming found,
    The welcome sight of little toys,
    The Christmas gift of cousins round.

    The wooden horse with arching head,
    Drawn upon wheels around the room;
    The gilded coach of gingerbread,
    And many-colour'd sugar plum;
    Gilt cover'd books for pictures sought,
    Or stories childhood loves to tell,
    With many an urgent promise bought,
    To get to-morrow's lesson well.

    And many a thing, a minute's sport,
    Left broken on the sanded floor,
    When we would leave our play, and court
    Our parents' promises for more.
    Tho' manhood bids such raptures die,
    And throws such toys aside as vain,
    Yet memory loves to turn her eye,
    And count past pleasures o'er again.

    Around the glowing hearth at night,
    The harmless laugh and winter tale
    Go round, while parting friends delight
    To toast each other o'er their ale;
    The cotter oft with quiet zeal
    Will musing o'er his Bible lean;
    While in the dark the lovers steal
    To kiss and toy behind the screen.

    Old customs! Oh! I love the sound,
    However simple they may be:
    Whate'er with time hath sanction found,
    Is welcome, and is dear to me.
    Pride grows above simplicity,
    And spurns them from her haughty mind,
    And soon the poet's song will be
    The only refuge they can find.

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Excerpted from Favorite Christmas Poems by James Daley. Copyright © 2006 Dover Publications, Inc.. Excerpted by permission of Dover Publications, Inc..
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