Christmas-Days are still in store:--
Will they change--steal faded hither?
Or come fresh as heretofore,
Summering all our winter weather?
Surely they will keep their bloom
All the countless pacing ages:
In the country whence they come
Children only are the sages!
Hither, every hour and year,
Children come to cure our oldness--
Oft, alas, to gather sear
Unbelief, and earthy boldness!
Men they grow and women cold,
Selfish, passionate, and plaining!
Ever faster they grow old:--
On the world, ah, eld is gaining!
Child, whose childhood ne'er departs!
Jesus, with the perfect father!
Drive the age from parents' hearts;
To thy heart the children gather.
Send thy birth into our souls,
With its grand and tender story.
Hark! the gracious thunder rolls!--
News to men! to God old glory!