|
More
Poems
for
the
Christmas
Season
A selection of my favourite
poems
and readings for Christmas tide -
many familiar, some perhaps
less so, and one or two less serious.
A Christmas Carol
G.K.Chesterton
The Christ-child lay on Mary’s lap,
His hair was like a light.
(O weary, weary was 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 Coming of the Magi
T.S.Eliot
‘A cold coming we had of it,
Just the worst time of the year
For a journey, and such a journey:
The ways deep and the weather sharp,
The very dead of winter.'
And the camels galled, sore-footed, refractory,
Lying down in the melting snow.
There were times we regretted
The summer palaces on slopes, the terraces,
And the silken girls bringing sherbet.
Then the camel men cursing and grumbling
And running away, and wanting their liquor and women,
And the night-fires going out, and the lack of shelters,
And the cities hostile and the towns unfriendly
And the villages dirty and charging high prices:
A hard time we had of it.
At the end we preferred to travel all night,
Sleeping in snatches,
With the voices singing in our ears, saying
That this was all folly.
Then at dawn we came down to a temperate valley,
Wet, below the snow line, smelling of vegetation;
With a running stream and a water-mill beating the darkness,
And three trees on the low sky,
And an old white horse galloped away in the meadow.
Then we came to a tavern with vine-leaves over the lintel,
Six hands at an open door dicing for pieces of silver,
And feet kicking the empty wine-skins.
But there was no information, and so we continued
And arrived at evening, not a moment too soon
Finding the place; it was (you may say) satisfactory.
All this was a long time ago, I remember,
And I would do it again, but set down
This set down
This: were we led all that way for
Birth or Death? There was a Birth, certainly,
We had evidence and no doubt. I had seen birth and death,
But had thought they were different; this Birth was
Hard and bitter agony for us, like Death, our death.
We returned to our places, these Kingdoms,
But no longer at ease here, in the old dispensation,
With an alien people clutching their gods.
I should be glad of another death.
 |
Before the Paling of the
Stars
Christina Rossetti
Before the paling of the stars,
Before the winter morn,
Before the earliest cock-crow,
Jesus Christ was born:
Born in a stable,
Cradled in a manger,
In the world His hands had made
Born a stranger.
Priest and King lay fast asleep
In Jerusalem;
Young and old lay fast asleep
In crowded Bethlehem;
Saint and Angel, ox and ass,
Kept a watch together,
Before the Christmas daybreak
In the winter weather.
Jesus on His Mother’s breast
In the stable cold,
Spotless Lamb of God was He,
Shepherd of the fold:
Let us kneel with Mary Maid,
With Joseph bent and hoary,
With Saint and Angel, ox and ass,
To hail the King of Glory.
 |
In the Bleak Mid-Winter
Christina Rossetti
In the bleak mid-winter
Frosty wind made moan,
Earth stood hard as iron,
Water like a stone:
Snow had fallen, snow on snow,
Snow on snow,
In the bleak mid-winter,
Long ago.
Our God, heaven cannot hold him
Nor earth sustain;
Heaven and earth shall flee away
When he comes to reign;
In the bleak mid-winter
A stable-place sufficed
The Lord God Almighty,
Jesus Christ.
Enough for him, whom cherubim
Worship night and day,
A breastful of milk,
And a mangerful of hay:
Enough for him, whom angels
Fall down before,
The ox and ass and camel
Which adore.
Angels and archangels
May have gathered there,
Cherubim and seraphim
Thronged the air –
But only his mother
In her maiden bliss
Worshipped the Beloved
Wit a kiss.
What can I give him
Poor as I am?
If I were a shepherd
I would bring a lamb;
If I were a wise man
I would do my part;
Yet what I can I give him –
Give my heart.
 |
Carol
Eiluned Lewis
Sing, happy child, Noel, Noel,
Bright shines Orion’s sword
Where every star stands sentinel
And watchful of their Lord.
Sweetly the carol singers speak,
They fill the firelit hall,
Singing of Mary, fair and meek,
And Jesus in the stall.
Hark, happy child, to what they say,
Lock in your heart their song
Lest you should lose it on the way
When every road seems long.
You will recall the spiced scent
Of leaves where no winds stir,
When gold and frankincense are spent,
And nothing’s left but myrrh.
 |
Christmas
John Betjeman
The bells of waiting Advent ring,
The Tortoise stove is lit again
And lamp-oil light across the night
Has caught the streaks of winter rain
In many a stained-glass window sheen
From Crimson Lake to Hooker’s Green.
The holly in the windy hedge
And round the Manor House the yew
Will soon be stripped to deck the ledge,
The altar, font and arch and pew
So that the villagers can say
‘The church looks nice’ on Christmas Day.
Provincial public houses blaze
And Corporation tramcars clang.
On lighted tenements I gaze
Where paper decorations hang,
And bunting in the red Town Hall
Says ‘Merry Christmas to you all.’
And London shops on Christmas Eve
Are strung with silver bells and flowers
As hurrying clerks the City leave
To pigeon-haunted classic towers,
And marbled clouds go scudding by
The many-steepled London sky.
And girls in slacks remember Dad,
And oafish louts remember Mum,
And sleepless children’s hearts are glad,
And Christmas-morning bells say ‘Come!’
Even to shining ones who dwell
Safe in the Dorchester Hotel.
And is it true? And is it true,
This most tremendous tale of all,
Seen in a stained-glass window’s hue,
A Baby in an ox’s stall?
The Maker of the stars and sea
Become a Child on earth for me?
And is it true? For if it is,
No loving fingers tying strings
Around those tissued fripperies,
The sweet and silly Christmas things,
Bath salts and inexpensive scent
And hideous tie so kindly meant,
No love that in a family dwells,
No carolling in frosty air,
Nor all the steeple-shaking bells
Can wit this single Truth compare –
That God was Man in Palestine
And lives today in Bread and Wine.
 |
Christmas Landscape
Laurie Lee
Tonight the wind gnaws
With teeth of glass,
The jackdaw shivers
In caged branches of iron,
The stars have talons.
There is hunger in the mouth
Of vole and badger,
Silver agonies of breath
In the nostril of the fox,
Ice on the rabbit’s paw.
Tonight has no moon,
No food for the pilgrim;
The fruit tree is bare,
The rose bush a thorn
And the ground bitter with stones.
But the mole sleeps, and the hedgehog
Lies curled I a womb of leaves,
The bean and the wheat-seed
Hug their germs in the earth
And the stream moves under the ice.
Tonight there is no moon,
But a new star opens
Like a silver trumpet over the dead.
Tonight in a nest of ruins
The blessed babe is laid.
And the fir tree warms t a bloom of candles,
The child lights his lantern,
Stares at his tinselled toy;
Our hearts and hearths
Smoulder with live ashes.
In the blood of our grief
The cold earth is suckled,
In our agony the womb
Convulses its seed;
In the cry of anguish
The child’s first breath is born.
 |
In a Far Land Upon a Day
Eleanor Farjeon
In a far land upon a day,
Where never snow did fall,
Three kings went riding on the way
Bearing presents all.
And one wore red, and one wore gold,
And one was clad in green,
And one way young, and one was old,
And one was in between.
The middle one had human sense,
The young had loving eyes,
The old had much experience,
And all of them were wise.
Choosing no guide by eve and morn
But heaven’s starry drifts,
They rode to find the Newly-Born
For whom they carried gifts.
Oh, far away in time they rode
Upon their wanderings,
And still in story goes abroad
The riding of the Kings.
So wise, that in their chosen hour,
As through the world they filed,
They sought not wealth or place or power,
But rode to find a child.
 |
Innocent’s Song
Charles Causley
Who’s that knocking on the window,
Who’s that standing at the door,
What are all those presents
Lying on the kitchen floor?
Who is the smiling stranger
With hair as white as gin,
What is he doing with the children
And who could have let him in?
Why has he rubies on his fingers,
A cold, cold crown on his head,
Why, when he caws his carol,
Does the salty snow run red?
Why does he ferry my fireside
As a spider on a thread,
His fingers made of fuses
And his tongue of gingerbread?
Why does the world before him
Melt in a million suns,
Why do his yellow, yearning eyes
Burn like saffron buns?
Watch where he comes walking
Out of the Christmas flame,
Dancing, double-talking:
Herod is his name.
 |
King John’s Christmas
A.A.Milne
King John was not a good man –
He had his little ways,
And sometimes no-one spoke to him
For days and days and days.
And men who came across him
When walking in the town,
Gave him a supercilious stare,
Or passed with noses in the air –
And bad King John stood dumbly there,
Blushing beneath his crown.
King John was not a good man,
And no good friends had he.
He stayed in every afternoon…
But no-one came to tea.
And, round about December,
The cards upon his shelf
Which wished him lots of Christmas cheer,
And fortune in the coming year,
Were never from his near and dear,
But only from himself.
King John was not a good man,
Yet had his hopes and fears.
They’d given him no presents now
For years and years and years.
But every year at Christmas,
While minstrels stood about,
Collecting tribute from the young
For all the songs they might have sung,
He stole away upstairs and hung
A hopeful stocking out.
King John was not a good man,
He lived his life aloof;
Alone he thought a message out
While climbing up the roof.
He wrote it down and propped it
Against the chimney stack:
‘TO ALL AND SUNDRY – NEAR AND FAR –
F. CHRISTMAS IN PARTICULAR.’
And signed it not ‘Johannes R.’
But very humbly: ‘JACK.’
‘I want some crackers,
And I want some candy;
I think a box of chocolates
Would come in handy
I don’t mind oranges,
I do like nuts!
And I SHOULD like a pocket-knife
That really cuts.
And, oh! Father Christmas,
If you love me at all,
Bring me a big, red india-rubber ball!
King John was not a good man –
He wrote this message out,
And gat him to his room again,
Descending by the spout,
And all that night he lay there,
A prey to hopes and fears.
‘I think that’s him a-coming now,’
(Anxiety bedewed his brow.)
‘He’ll bring one present, anyhow –
The first I’ve had in years.’;
‘Forget about the crackers,
And forget about the candy;
I’m sure a box of chocolates
Would never come in handy;
I don’t like oranges,
I don’t want nuts,
And I HAVE got a pocket-knife
That almost cuts,
Bu, oh! Father Christmas
If you love me at all,
Bring me a big, red india-rubber ball!’
King John was not a good man –
Next morning when the sun
Rose up to tell a waiting world
That Christmas had begun,
And people seized their stockings,
And opened them with glee,
And crackers, toys and games appeared,
And lips with sticky sweets were smeared,
King John said grimly: ‘As I feared,
Nothing again for me!’
‘I did want crackers,
And I did want candy;
I know a box of chocolates
Would come in handy;
I do love oranges,
I did want nuts.
I haven’t got a pocket-knife –
Not one that cuts.
And, oh! If Father Christmas
Had loved me at all,
He would have brought
A big red India-rubber ball!’
King John stood by the window,
And frowned to see below
The happy band of boys and girls
All playing in the snow.
A while he stood there watching,
And envying them all …
When through the window, big and red
There hurtled by his royal head,
And bounced and fell upon the bed,
An india-rubber ball!
AND, OH! FATHER CHRISTMAS,
MY BLESSINGS ON YOU FALL
FOR BRINGING HIM
A BIG, RED, INDIA-RUBBER BALL!
 |
Little Christ Jesus
Eleanor Farjeon
Now every Child that dwells on earth,
Stand up, stand up and sing:
The passing night has given birth
Unto the Children’s King.
Sing sweet as the flute,
Sing clear as the horn,
Sing joy of the Children,
Come Christmas the morn:
Little Christ Jesus
Our brother is born.
Now every star that dwells in sky,
Look down with shining eyes:
The night has dropped in passing by
A star from Paradise.
Sing sweet as the flute,
Sing clear as the horn,
Sing joy of the Stars,
Come Christmas the morn:
Little Christ Jesus
Our brother is born.
Now every Beast that crops in field,
Breathe sweetly and adore:
The night has brought the richest yield
That ever the harvest bore.
Sing sweet as the flute,
Sing clear as the horn,
Sing joy of the Creatures,
Come Christmas the morn:
Our brother is born.
Now every Bird that flies in air,
Sing, raven, lark and dove:
The night has brooded on her lair
And fledged the Bird of love.
Sing sweet as the flute,
Sing clear as the horn,
Sing joy of the Birds,
Come Christmas the morn:
Little Christ Jesus
Our brother is born.
Now all the Angels of the Lord,
Rise up on Christmas Even:
The passing night will hear the Word
That is the voice of Heaven.
Sing sweet as the flute,
Sing clear as the horn,
Sing joy of the Angels,
Come Christmas the morn:
Little Christ Jesus
Our brother is born.
 |
Ring Out, Wild Bells
Alfred, Lord Tennyson
Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky,
The flying cloud, the frosty light,
The year is dying in the night,
Ring out, wild bells, and let him die.
Ring out the old, ring in the new,
Ring, happy bells, across the snow:
The year is going, let him go;
Ring out the false, ring in the true.
Ring out the grief that saps the mind,
For those that here we see no more;
RinSg out the feud of rich and poor,
Ring in redress to all mankind.
Ring out a slowly dying cause,
And ancient forms of party strife;
Ring in the nobler modes of life,
With sweeter manners, purer laws.
Ring out the want, the care, the sin,
The faithless coldness of the times;
Ring out, ring out thy mournful rhymes,
But ring the fuller minstrel in.
Ring out false pride in place and blood,
The civic slander and the spite;
Ring in the love of truth and right,
Ring in the common love of good.
Ring out foul shapes of old disease;
Ring out the narrowing lust of gold;
Ring out the thousand wars of old,
Ring in the thousand years of peace.
Ring in the valiant man and free,
The larger heart, the kindlier hand;
Ring out the darkness of the land,
Ring in the Christ that is to be.
 |
The Carol of Three
Clive Sansom
Three kings came a-riding
Through tempest and through cold;
Their coats were of the silken thread,
Their crowns were beaten gold.
A star shone in the sky before,
The storm it rolled behind,
And as they rode their cloaks drew out
Like clouds along the wind.
Three shepherds left their shivering flocks,
Came stumbling through the night;
The song of angels drowned their ears,
Their eyes were blind with light.
They groped along the courtyard wall,
Unpinned the stable door,
Then halted all with steaming breath
To stare upon the floor.
Three strangers lodged within the barn
That night of frost and storm,
With ox and ass for company
And straw to keep them warm.
One stranger stood with hand on stall,
One knelt in folds of blue,
And one there lay in shadowed sleep
As mortal children do.
The halted shepherds bowed the head,
The kings they bent the knee,
And marvelling they worshipped there
I silence, three by three.
The tempest fell; a cock crowed thrice;
The shepherds’ task was done.
The kings re-mounted in a dream
And rode towards the sun.
 |
The House of Christmas
G.K.Chesterton
There fared a mother driven forth,
Out of an inn to roam;
In the face 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 begin.
A child in a foul stable,
Where the bests 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 cart 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 fire as the fire-drake swings
And out 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.
 |
The Innkeeper’s Wife
Clive Sansom
I love this byre. Shadows are kindly here.
The light is flecked with travelling stars of dust,
So quiet it seems after the inn-clamour,
Scraping of fiddles and the stamping feet.
Only the cows, each in her patient box,
Turn their slow eyes, as we and the sunlight enter,
Their slowly rhythmic mouths.
‘That is the stall,
Carpenter. You see it’s too far gone
For patching or repatching. My husband made it,
And he’s been gone these dozen years and more…’
Strange how this lifeless thing, degraded wood
Split from the tree and nailed and crucified
To make a wall, outlives the mastering hand
That struck it down, the warm firm hand
That touched my body with its wandering love.
‘No, let the fire take them. Strip every board
And make a new beginning. Too many memories lurk
Like worms in this old wood. That piece you’re holding –
That patch of grain with the giant’s thumbprint –
I stared at it a full hour when he died:
Its grooves are down my mind. And that board there
Baring its knot-hole like a missing jig-saw –
I remember another hand along its rim.
No, not my husband’s and why I should remember
I cannot say. It was a night in winter.
Our house was full, tight-packed as salted herrings –
So full, they said, we had to hold our breaths
To close the door and shut the night-air out!
And then two travellers came. They stood outside
Across the threshold, half in the ring of light
And half beyond it. I would have let them in
Despite the crowding – the woman was past her time –
But I’d no mind to argue with my husband,
The flagon in my hand and half the inn
Still clamouring for wine. But when trade slackened,
And all out guests had sung themselves to bed
Or told the floor their troubles, I came out here
Where he had lodged them. The man was standing
As you are now, his hand smoothing that board –
He was a carpenter, I heard them say.
She rested on the straw, and on her arm
A child was lying. None of your crease-faced brats
Squalling their lungs out. Just lying there
As calm as a new-dropped calf – his eyes wide open,
And gazing round as if the world he saw
In the chaff-strewn light of the stable lantern
Was something beautiful and new and strange.
Ah well, he’ll have learnt different now, I reckon,
Wherever he is. And why I should recall
A scene like that, when times I would remember
Have passed beyond reliving, I cannot think.
It’s a trick you’re served by old possessions:
They have their memories too – too many memories.
Well, I must go in. There are meals to serve.
Join us there, Carpenter, when you’ve had enough
Of cattle-company. The world is a sad place,
But wine and music blunt the truth of it.
 |
The King is Coming
Anon
Yet if His Majesty, our sovereign Lord,
Should of his own accord
Friendly himself invite,
And say: ‘I’ll be your guest tomorrow night,’
How should we stir ourselves, call and command
All hands to work! ‘Let no man idle stand!
Set me fine Spanish tables in the hall;
See they be fitted all;
Let there be room to eat
And order taken that there want no meat.
See every sconce and candlestick made bright,
That without tapers they may give a light.
‘Look to the presence; are the carpets spread,
The dazie o’er the head,
The cushions in the chairs;
And all the candles lighted on the stairs?
Perfume the chambers, and in any case
Let each man give attendance in his place!’
Thus, if a king were coming, would we do;
And ‘twere good reason too;
For ‘tis a duteous thing
To show all honour to an earthly king,
And after all out travail and our cost
So he be pleased, to think no labour lost.
But at the coming of the King of Heaven
All’s set at six and seven;
We wallow in our sin,
Christ cannot find a chamber in the inn.
We entertain Him always like a stranger,
And, as at first, still lodge Him in the manger.
 |
The Oxen
Thomas Hardy
Christmas Eve, and twelve of the clock,
‘Now they are all on their knees’,
An elder said as we sat in a flock
By the embers in hearthside ease.
We pictured the meek mild creatures where
They dwelt in their strawy pen,
Nor did it occur to one of us there
To doubt they were kneeling then.
So fair a fancy few would weave
In those years! Yet, I feel,
If some one said on Christmas Eve,
Come, see the oxen kneel
‘In the lonely barton by yonder coomb
Our childhood used to know’,
I should go with him in the gloom,
Hoping it would be so.
 |
The Strangers
Walter de la Mare
Dim-berried is the mistletoe
With globes of sheenless grey,
The holly mid ten thousand thorns
Smoulders its fires away;
And in the manger Jesus sleeps
This Christmas Day.
Bull unto bull with hollow throat
Makes echo every hill,
Cold sheep in pastures thick with snow
The air with bleating fill;
While of his mother’s heart this Babe
Takes His sweet will.
All flowers and butterflies lie hid,
The blackbird and the thrush
Pipe but a little as they flit
Restless from bush to bush
Even to the robin Gabriel hath
Cried softly ‘Hush!’
Now night’s astir with burning stars
In darkness of the snow;
Burdened with frankincense and myrrh
And gold the Strangers go
Into a dusk where one dim lamp
Burns softly, lo!
No snowdrop yet its small head nods
In winds of winter drear;
No lark at casement in the sky
Sings matins shrill and clear;
Yet in this frozen mirk the Dawn
Breathes, Spring is here!
 |
The Twelve Days of Christmas
…or Too Much of a Good Thing?
Anon
On the first day of Christmas, my true love said to me,
I’m glad I’ve bought fresh turkey and a proper Christmas tree.
On the second day of Christmas much laughter could be heard,
As we tucked into our turkey – a most delicious bird.
On the third day of Christmas we’d people from next door,
The turkey tasted just as good as it did the day before.
Day four relations came to stay, poor Gran is looking old –
We finished up the Christmas pud and ate the turkey cold.
On the fifth day of Christmas outside the snow flakes flurried,
But we were nice and warm inside – we had the turkey curried.
On the sixth day I must admit the turkey spirit died,
The children fought and bickered – we ate the turkey fried.
On the seventh day of Christmas, my true love gave a wince,
When he sat down at table and was offered turkey mince.
Day eight our nerves were getting frayed, the dog had run for
shelter.
I served up turkey pancakes with a glass of Alka Seltzer.
Day nine our cat left home and Dad began to cry,
He said he couldn’t face the thought of eating turkey pie.
Day ten, and all the cake had gone, the chocolate Yule log too,
As if that wasn’t bad enough, we suffered turkey stew.
On the eleventh day of Christmas the Christmas tree was moulting,
The mince pies were as hard as rock and the turkey was revolting.
On the twelfth day of Christmas at last Dad licked his lips,
The guests had gone, the turkey too… we dined on fish and chips!
 |
What Sweeter Music?
Robert Herrick
What sweeter music can we bring
Than a carol, for to sing
The birth of this our heavenly King?
Awake the voice, Awake the string!
We see him come, and know him ours,
Who with his sunshine and his showers
Turns all the patient ground to flowers.
Dark and dull night, fly hence away,
And give the honour to this day,
That sees December turned to May,
If we may ask the reason, say:
The darling of the world is come,
And fit it is we find a room
To welcome him. The nobler part
Of all the house here is the heart:
Which we will give him, and bequeath
This holly and this ivy wreath,
To do him honour who’s our King,
And Lord of all this revelling:
 |