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THE FIRST WAITS.
A MEDITATION FOR ALL.
- SO, Christmas is here again!—
- While the house sleeps, quiet as death,
- ’Neath the midnight moon comes the Waits’ shrill tune,
- And we listen and hold our breath.
- The Christmas that never was—
- On this foggy November air,
- With clear pale gleam, like the ghost of a dream,
- It is painted everywhere.
- The Christmas that might have been—
- It is borne in the far‐off sound,
- Down the empty street, with the tread of feet
- That lie silent underground.
- The Christmas that yet may be—
- Like the Bethlehem star, leads kind:
- Yet our life slips past, hour by hour, fast, fast,
- Few before—and many behind.
- The Christmas we have and hold,
- With a tremulous tender strain,
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- Half joy, half fears—Be the psalm of the years,
- “Grief passes, blessings remain!”
- The Christmas that sure will come,
- Let us think of, at fireside fair;—
- When church bells sound o’er one small green mound,
- Which the neighbors pass to prayer.
- The Christmas that God will give,—
- Long after all these are o’er,
- When is day nor night, for the LAMB is our Light,
- And we live forevermore.
