CHRISTMAS.
In the holy Christmas season
Shines the moonlight bright and clear,
In the graveyard, on the crosses,
In the warden’s window near;
And the moonlight roused his slumber—
From his bed he rose in haste,
Thinking it must be now morning
And he had no time to waste.
Bright the snow is lying round him,
As he goes to ring the bell.
When he hears the church clock striking
Twelve o’clock, he counts it well.
Home again he would have turned him,
Lain him down in peace again,
When by chance he sees the window,
Where light streams from out the pane.
Lost in wonder he went onward
To the church, and entered in.
Candles by the altar burning
Light the church’s outline dim.
There he sees upon the benches,
Men and women scattered round,
People that he knows are kneeling,
Praying there without a sound.
Then he spoke, and said “Good-morning,”
First to this one, then to that.
Not an answer did they give him,
No one noticed where he sat
