Save those that troop in mournful row,

The ghosts we all can raise at will!

The beasts can talk in barn and byre

On Christmas Eve, old legends know.

As year by year the years retire,

We men fall silent then I trow,

Such sights hath memory to show,

Such voices from the silence thrill,

Such shapes return with Christmas snow,—

The ghosts we all can raise at will.