I am sitting alone in my fire-lit room;
But, no! the fire is dying,
And the weary-voiced winds, in the outer gloom,
Are sad, and I hear them sighing.
The wind hath a voice to pine —
Plaintive, and pensive and low;
Hath it a heart like mine or thine?
Knoweth it weal or woe?
How it wails in a ghost-like strain,
Just against that window pane!
As if it were tired of its long, cold flight,
And wanted to rest with me to-night.
Cease! night-winds, cease!
Why should you be sad?
This is a night of joy and peace,
And heaven and earth are glad!
But still the wind's voice grieves!
Perchance o'er the fallen leaves,
Which, in their summer bloom,
Danced to the music of bird and breeze,
But, torn from the arms of their parent trees,
Lie now in their wintry tomb —
Mute types of man's own doom.
And thus with the night winds only,
And the fancies they unweave,
Alone, and yet not lonely,
I keep my Christmas eve.
How long have I been dreaming here?
Or have I dreamed at all?
My fire is dead — my pictures fled —
There's nothing left but shadows drear —
Shadows on the wall:
Shifting, flitting,
Round me sitting
In my old arm chair —
Rising, sinking
Round me, thinking,
Till, in the maze of many a dream,
I'm not myself; and I almost seem
Like one of the shadows there.
Well, let the shadows stay!
I wonder who are they?
I cannot say; but I almost believe
They know to-night is Christmas eve,
And to-morrow Christmas day.
Ah! there's nothing like a Christmas eve
To change life's bitter gall to sweet,
And change the sweet to gall again;
To take the thorns from out our feet —
The thorns and all their dreary pain,
Only to put them back again.
To take old stings from out our heart —
Old stings that made them bleed and smart —
Only to sharpen them the more,
And press them back to the heart's own core.
Ah! no eve is like the Christmas eve!
Fears and hopes, and hopes and fears,
Tears and smiles, and smiles and tears,
Cheers and sighs, and sighs and cheers,
Sweet and bitter, bitter, sweet,
Bright and dark, and dark and bright.
All these mingle, all these meet,
In this great and solemn night.
Ah! there's nothing like a Christmas eve
To melt, with kindly glowing heat,
From off our souls the snow and sleet,
The dreary drift of wintry years,
Only to make the cold winds blow,
Only to make a colder snow;
And make it drift, and drift, and drift,
In flakes so icy-cold and swift,
Until the heart that lies below
Is cold and colder than the snow.
And thus with the shadows only,
And the dreamings they unweave,
Alone, and yet not lonely,
I keep my Christmas eve.
'Tis passing fast!
My fireless, lampless room
Is a mass of moveless gloom;
And without — a darkness vast,
Solemn — starless — still!
Heaven and earth doth fill.