Early on Christmas Day, Love, as awake I lay, And heard the Christmas bells ring sweet and clearly,
Thrice happy are those Who ne'er heard of Greek Prose-- Or Greek Poetry either, as far as that goes;
Till the tread of marching feet Through the quiet grass-grown street Of the little town shall come,
The mist hangs round the College tower, The ghostly street Is silent at this midnight hour,
You found my life, a poor lame bird That had no heart to sing, You would not speak the magic word
I met him down upon the pier; His eyes were wild and sad, And something in them made me fear
Not the proudest damsel here Looks so well as doth my dear. All the borrowed light of dress
I hear a twittering of birds, And now they burst in song. How sweet, although it wants the words!
This morning, while we sat in talk Of spring and apple-bloom, Lo! Death stood in the garden walk,
Ever to be the best. To lead In whatsoever things are true; Not stand among the halting crew,
When the weary night is fled, And the morning sky is red, Then my heart doth rise and say,
Lost Youth, come back again! Laugh at weariness and pain. Come not in dreams, but come in truth,
Despair is in the suns that shine, And in the rains that fall, This sad forsaken soul of mine
Lost at sea, with all on board! No one saw their sinking sail, No one heard their dying wail,
Of our own will we are not free, When freedom lies within our power. We wait for some decisive hour,
Whene'er I try to read a book, Across the page your face will look, And then I neither know nor care
When I was young and well and glad, I used to play at being sad; Now youth and health are fled away,
A day of gladness yet will dawn, Though when I cannot say; Perhaps it may be Thursday week,
Sweetheart, that thou art fair I know, More fair to me Than flowers that make the loveliest show
There's a fiddler in the street, And the children all are dancing: Two dozen lightsome feet
Hurrah for the Science Club! Join it, ye fourth year men; Join it, thou smooth-cheeked scrub,