Christmas

The birth day of the Christ child dawneth slow
    Out of the opal east in rosy flame,
    As if a luminous picture in its frame--
        A great cathedral window, toward the sun
Lifted a form divine, which still below
    Stretched hands of benediction;--while the air
    Swayed the bright aureole of the flowing hair
Which lit our upturned faces;--even so
        Look on us from the heavens, divinest One
And let us hear through the slow moving years.
Long centuries of wrongs, and crimes, and tears,--
    The echo of the angel's song again,
    Peace and good will, good will and peace to men,
A little space make silence,--that our ears,
        Filled with the din of toil and moil and pain
May catch the jubilant rapture of the skies,--
The glories of the choirs of paradise.

The hills still tremble when the thunders cease
    Of the loud diapason,--and again
Through the rapt stillness steals the hymn of peace;
    Melodious and sweet its far refrain
Dying in distance, as the shadows die
Of white wings vanished up the morning sky,
    As farther still--and thinner--more remote--
    A film of sound, the aerial voices float--
Peace and good will, good will and peace to men!