My Heart Is Like A Singing Bird.

Christmas Hath A Darkness; Brighter Than The Blazing Noon; Christmas Hath A Chillness Warmer Than The Heat Of June, Christmas Hath A Beauty Lovelier Than The World Can Show: For Christmas Bringeth Jesus, Brought For Us So Low

All Things That Pass Are Wisdom's Looking-glass.

I Wonder If The Sap Is Stirring Yet, If Wintry Birds Are Dreaming Of A Mate, If Frozen Snowdrops Feel As Yet The Sun And Crocus Fires Are Kindling One By One: Sing Robin, Sing: I Still Am Sore In Doubt Concerning Spring.

I Wish I Could Remember The First Day, First Hour, First Moment Of Your Meeting Me; If Bright Or Dim The Season It Might Be; Summer Or Winter For Aught I Can Say. So, Unrecorded Did It Slip Away, So Blind Was I To See And To Forsee, So Dull To Mark The Budding Of My Tree That Would Not Blossom, Yet, For Many A May.

The Bourne Underneath The Growing Grass, Underneath The Living Flowers, Deeper Than The Sound Of Showers: There We Shall Not Count The Hours By The Shadows As They Pass. Youth And Health Will Be But Vain, Beauty Reckoned Of No Worth: There A Very Little Girth Can Hold Round What Once The Earth Seemed Too Narrow To Contain.