Some Christmas Poems I Like

This first one is poignant because of what must be happening with holy family at the time the maid is recalling... more than thirty years after Bethlehem:

The Maid-Servant At The Inn

"It's queer," she said; "I see the light

As plain as I beheld it then,

All silver-like and calm and bright-
We've not had stars like that again!



"And she was such a gentle thing
To birth a baby in the cold.

The barn was dark and frightening-

This new one's better than the old.

"I mind my eyes were full of tears,

For I was young, and quick distressed,

But she was less than me in years

That held a son against her breast.



"I never saw a sweeter child
-
The little one, the darling one!-
I mind I told her, when he smiled

You'd know he was his mother's son.



"It's queer that I should see them so-

The time they came to Bethlehem

Was more than thirty years ago;
I've prayed that all is well with them."

Dorothy Parker

I like this one whole, but the last three verses stand out. It manages to be light-hearted and deep at the same time... there's something Christmassy about that.

Christmas 

The bells of waiting Advent ring,

The Tortoise stove is lit again

And lamp-oil light across the night

Has caught the streaks of winter rain

In many a stained-glass window sheen

From Crimson Lake to Hookers Green.

The holly in the windy hedge

And round the Manor House the yew

Will soon be stripped to deck the ledge,

The altar, font and arch and pew,

So that the villagers can say

'The church looks nice' on Christmas Day.

Provincial Public Houses blaze,

Corporation tramcars clang,

On lighted tenements I gaze,

Where paper decorations hang,

And bunting in the red Town Hall

Says 'Merry Christmas to you all'.

And London shops on Christmas Eve

Are strung with silver bells and flowers

As hurrying clerks the City leave

To pigeon-haunted classic towers,

And marbled clouds go scudding by

The many-steepled London sky.

And girls in slacks remember Dad,

And oafish louts remember Mum,

And sleepless children's hearts are glad.

And Christmas-morning bells say 'Come!'

Even to shining ones who dwell

Safe in the Dorchester Hotel.

And is it true,

This most tremendous tale of all,

Seen in a stained-glass window's hue,

A Baby in an ox's stall ?

The Maker of the stars and sea

Become a Child on earth for me ?

And is it true ? For if it is,

No loving fingers tying strings

Around those tissued fripperies,

The sweet and silly Christmas things,

Bath salts and inexpensive scent

And hideous tie so kindly meant,

No love that in a family dwells,

No carolling in frosty air,

Nor all the steeple-shaking bells

Can with this single Truth compare -

That God was man in Palestine

And lives today in Bread and Wine.

by John Betjeman

This last poem is by English Jesuit, Robert Southwell, S.J. After volunteering to go to England, and six years of missionary work there, he was arrested, tortured and convicted of treason, and on Feb. 20, 1595 was hung, drawn and quartered at Tyburn, London.

The Burning Babe

As I in hoary winter's night stood shivering in the snow,

Surprised I was with sudden heat which made my heart to glow ;

And lifting up a fearful eye to view what fire was near,

A pretty babe all burning bright did in the air appear ;

Who, scorchëd with excessive heat, such floods of tears did shed

As though his floods should quench his flames which with his tears were fed.

Alas, quoth he, but newly born in fiery heats I fry,

Yet none approach to warm their hearts or feel my fire but I !

My faultless breast the furnace is, the fuel wounding thorns,

Love is the fire, and sighs the smoke, the ashes shame and scorns ;

The fuel justice layeth on, and mercy blows the coals,

The metal in this furnace wrought are men's defilëd souls,

For which, as now on fire I am to work them to their good,

So will I melt into a bath to wash them in my blood.

With this he vanished out of sight and swiftly shrunk away,

And straight I callëd unto mind that it was Christmas day.