CANTO CIII.; CANTO CIV.

“The time draws near the birth of Christ; The moon is hid, the night is still; A single church below the hill Is pealing, folded in the mist.

“This holly by the cottage-eave To-night, ungathered shall it stand; We live within the stranger’s land, And strangely falls our Christmas eve.

“Our father’s dust is left alone And silent under other snows: There in due time the woodbine blows, The violet comes, but we are gone.” TENNYSON.