Christmas Eve

The thickly-woven boughs they wreathe
Through every hallow'd fane
A soft, reviving odour breathe
Of summer's gentle reign;
And rich the ray of mild green light
Which, like an emerald's glow,
Comes struggling through the latticed height
Upon the crowds below.
O, let the streams of solemn thought
Which in those temples rise,
From deeper sources spring than aught
Dependent on the skies:
Then, though the summer's pride departs,
And winter's withering chill
Rests on the cheerless woods, our hearts
Shall be unchanging still.