Читать книгу Children of Christmas, and Others - Edith Matilda Thomas - Страница 3

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Happy thou, a winter comer,

Happier with the snows around thee

Than if rosy-fingered summer

In thy cradle-nest had crowned thee.

Tender is the night, and holy:

Little clouds, like cherub faces,

Up the moon path, drifting slowly,

Vanish in the heavenly spaces.

Clothed in splendor, past our earth night,

Sphere on sphere is chanting Nowel:

Child, thy birthnight keeps a Birthnight

Dearest in all Time’s bestowal!

He who slept within a manger

Guards the pillow thou art pressing—

Sent thee hither, little stranger,

Blest—to be our Christmas Blessing!