And over them the stars tremble on high.
Pure joys, these winter nights, around me lie;
’Tis fine to loiter through the lighted streets
At Christmas time, and guess from brow and pace
The doom and history of each one we meet;
What kind of heart beats in each dusky case;
Whiles startled by the beauty of a face
In a shop-light a moment; or, instead,
To dream of silent fields, where calm and deep
The sunshine lieth like a golden sleep—