The Night

Most Holy Night, that still dost keep
The keys of all the doors of sleep,
To me when my tired eyelids close
Give thou repose.

And let the far lament of them
That chaunt the dead days requiem
Make in my ears, who wakeful lie,
Soft lullaby.

Let them that guard the hornàed Moon
By my bedside their memories croon.
So shall I have new dreams and blest
In my brief rest.

Fold thy great wings about my face,
Hide day-dawn from my resting-place,
And cheat me with thy false delight,
Most Holy Night.

Hilaire Belloc

Hilaire Belloc was an Anglo-French writer and historian, known for his poetry, essays, and children's books. Born on July 27, 1870, in France, he became a British citizen and was a prominent figure in early 20th-century British literature. Belloc was a devout Catholic, which significantly influenced his writings. He was a close friend of G.K. Chesterton and shared similar views on social and political issues. Belloc passed away on July 16, 1953, leaving behind a rich legacy of literary works.

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English

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Hymn To The Night.

I heard the trailing garments of the Night
    Sweep through her marble halls!
I saw her sable skirts all fringed with light
    From the celestial walls!

I felt her presence, by its spell of might,
    Stoop o'er me from above;
The calm, majestic presence of the Night,
    As of the one I love.

I heard the sounds of sorrow and delight,
    The manifold, soft chimes,
That fill the haunted chambers of the Night,
    Like some old poet's rhymes.

From the cool cisterns of the midnight air
    My spirit drank repose;
The fountain of perpetual peace flows there -
    From those deep cisterns flows.

O holy Night! from thee I learn to bear
    What man has borne before!
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Voices Of The Night - Hymn To The Night.

[Greek quotation]

I heard the trailing garments of the Night
        Sweep through her marble halls!
I saw her sable skirts all fringed with light
        From the celestial walls!

I felt her presence, by its spell of might,
        Stoop o'er me from above;
The calm, majestic presence of the Night,
        As of the one I love.

I heard the sounds of sorrow and delight,
        The manifold, soft chimes,
That fill the haunted chambers of the Night
        Like some old poet's rhymes.

From the cool cisterns of the midnight air
        My spirit drank repose;
The fountain of perpetual peace flows there,--
        From those deep cisterns flows.

O holy Night! from thee I learn to bear
        What man has borne before!

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Good Night.

O slumber on, untaught to feel
The weight of care and sorrow's blight.
Here have I often loved to steal
And o'er thee breathe a soft "good night."

And gentle as thy beauty's ray
Be all the visions of thy dreams,
Thy years be joyous as to-day,
And life be always what it seems.

Ah, may it ne'er be thine to know
The sleepless eye, the tossing head;
May He above ordain it so,
And guardian angels shield thy bed.

Now o'er thy cheek the smile betrays
Some sweetness in thy dreaming eye,
Alas that thou must wake and gaze
On things that cause thy breast a sigh!

So placid is thy pillow here,
'Tis sweet, indeed, to know thy peace,
To smoothe thy locks and drop a tear,
To clasp a hand I must release.

Ah, dost thou dream of ...

Lennox Amott

Night

As some dusk mother shields from all alarms
    The tired child she gathers to her breast,
The brunette Night doth fold me in her arms,
    And hushes me to perfect peace and rest.
Her eyes of stars shine on me, and I hear
Her voice of winds low crooning on my ear.
O Night, O Night, how beautiful thou art!
Come, fold me closer to thy pulsing heart.

The day is full of gladness, and the light
    So beautifies the common outer things,
I only see with my external sight,
    And only hear the great world's voice which rings.
But silently from daylight and from din
The sweet Night draws me - whispers, "Look within!"
And looking, as one wakened from a dream,
I see what IS - no longer what doth seem.

The Night says, "Listen!" and upon my ear
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Sleep.

Come, gentle sleep, with the holy night,
Come with the stars and the white moonbeams,
Come with your train of handmaids bright,
Blessed and beautiful dreams.

Bring the exile to his home again,
Let him catch the gleam of its low white wall;
Let his wife cling to his neck and weep,
And his children come at their father's call.

Give to the mother the child she lost,
Laid from her heart to a clay-cold bed;
Let its breath float over her tear-wet cheek,
And her cold heart warm 'neath its bright young head.

Take the sinner's hand and lead him back
To his sinless youth and his mother's knee;
Let him kneel again 'neath her tender look,
And murmur the prayer of his infancy.

Lead the aged into that wondrous clime,
Home of their youth and land...

Marietta Holley

Night.

As some dusk mother shields from all alarms
    The tired child she gathers to her breast,
The brunette Night doth fold me in her arms,
    And hushes me to perfect peace and rest.
Her eyes of stars shine on me, and I hear
Her voice of winds low crooning on my ear.
O Night, O Night, how beautiful thou art!
Come, fold me closer to thy pulsing heart.

The day is full of gladness, and the light
    So beautifies the common outer things,
I only see with my external sight,
    And only hear the great world's voice which rings
But silently from daylight and from din
The sweet Night draws me - whispers, "Look within!"
And looking, as one wakened from a dream,
I see what is - no longer what doth seem.

The Night says, "Listen!" and upon my ear
  ...

Ella Wheeler Wilcox