THE FIRST WAITS.
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THE FIRST WAITS.
A MEDITATION FOR ALL.
O, Christmas is here again!—While the house sleeps, quiet as death,
'Neath the midnight moon comes the Waits' shrill tune,
And we listen and hold our breath.
The Christmas that never was—
On this foggy November air,
With clear pale gleam, like the ghost of a dream,
It is painted everywhere.
On this foggy November air,
With clear pale gleam, like the ghost of a dream,
It is painted everywhere.
The Christmas that might have been—
It is borne in the far-off sound,
Down the empty street, with the tread of feet
That lie silent underground.
It is borne in the far-off sound,
Down the empty street, with the tread of feet
That lie silent underground.
The Christmas that yet may be—
Like the Bethlehem star, leads kind:
Yet our life slips past, hour by hour, fast, fast,
Few before—and many behind.
Like the Bethlehem star, leads kind:
Yet our life slips past, hour by hour, fast, fast,
Few before—and many behind.
The Christmas we have and hold,
With a tremulous tender strain,
With a tremulous tender strain,
