Let us murmur it now, till the shadows of the desolate chamber believe
That they fall, as of old, round the dear ones in the dusk of the Christmas Eve!
Let us murmur it softly; who knows, wife,
But a whisper will float, in reply,
Clear and sweet through the compassing dimness
As proof that our darlings are nigh?
For if ever their footsteps may wander from the heavenly home, I believe
They will seek us as visitant angels in the dusk of the Christmas Eve!
Edgar Fawcett.