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christmas eve.
Christmas Eve.
What multifarious threads we weave
In the web of Thought on Christmas Eve.
What bright-hued fancies intertwine
With sober memories of "Lang Syne."
O'er all the earth, both on land and sea,
There falls a hush of expectancy;
Almost we look for the shining wings
Of the Angel host that yearly brings
Tidings of joy to the listening earth—
Glad tidings of the Redeemer's birth.
The bustling world for a space is still,
As it lists to the message of goodwill;
And hearts grow softer, as hearts should grow,
And melt with pity, as melts the snow,
For Christmas Eve is the good time when
The leaven of goodwill levels all men:
For the hosts angelic with mankind leave
Peace and goodwill on Christmas Eve.
The young rejoice, as they gaily weave
Garlands of holly on Christmas Eve;
And many a dart from Cupid's bow
Is aimed from under the mistletoe;
And bright eyes sparkle with joy and pleasure,
While red lips trill the Yuletide measure,
And light feet trip to the rhythmic flow
Of music we danced to years ago.
And who would grudge them? Not I, forsooth,
For all too soon fly the days of youth:
In the web of Thought on Christmas Eve.
What bright-hued fancies intertwine
With sober memories of "Lang Syne."
O'er all the earth, both on land and sea,
There falls a hush of expectancy;
Almost we look for the shining wings
Of the Angel host that yearly brings
Tidings of joy to the listening earth—
Glad tidings of the Redeemer's birth.
The bustling world for a space is still,
As it lists to the message of goodwill;
And hearts grow softer, as hearts should grow,
And melt with pity, as melts the snow,
For Christmas Eve is the good time when
The leaven of goodwill levels all men:
For the hosts angelic with mankind leave
Peace and goodwill on Christmas Eve.
The young rejoice, as they gaily weave
Garlands of holly on Christmas Eve;
And many a dart from Cupid's bow
Is aimed from under the mistletoe;
And bright eyes sparkle with joy and pleasure,
While red lips trill the Yuletide measure,
And light feet trip to the rhythmic flow
Of music we danced to years ago.
And who would grudge them? Not I, forsooth,
For all too soon fly the days of youth:
