A New Heart For A New Year,

Christmas May Not Bring A Single Thing; Still, It Gives Me A Song To Sing.

The Boy Was Lying, Fast Asleep, On A Rude Bed Upon The Floor; So Pale With Anxiety, And Sadness, And The Closeness Of His Prison, That He Looked Like Death; Not Death As It Shews In Shroud And Coffin, But In The Guise It Wears When Life Has Just Departed; When A Young And Gentle Spirit Has, But An Instant, Fled To Heaven: And The Gross Air Of The World Has Not Had Time To Breathe Upon The Changing Dust It Hallowed.

Heaven Above Was Blue, And Earth Beneath Was Green; The River Glistened Like A Path Of Diamonds In The Sun; The Birds Poured Forth Their Songs From The Shady Trees; The Lark Soared High Above The Waving Corn; And The Deep Buzz Of Insects Filled The Air.

Old Marley Was As Dead As A Doornail. Mind! I Don't Mean To Say That, Of My Own Knowledge, What There Is Particularly Dead About A Doornail. I Might Have Been Inclined, Myself, To Regard A Coffin-nail As The Deadest Piece Of Ironmongery In The Trade. But The Wisdom Of Our Ancestors Is In The Simile; And My Unhallowed Hands Shall Not Disturb It, Or The Country's Done For. You Will Therefore Permit Me To Repeat, Emphatically, That Marley Was As Dead As A Doornail.

Shall We Speak Of The Inspiration Of A Poet Or A Priest, And Not Of The Heart Impelled By Love And Self-devotion To The Lowliest Work In The Lowliest Way Of Life?