Anonymous
At the Last
The stream is calmest when it nears the tide,
And flowers are sweetest at eventide,
The birds most musical at close of day,
The saints divinest when they pass away.
Morning is holy, but a holier charm
Lies folded in evening’s robe of balm;
And weary men must ever love her best.
For morning calls to toil, but night to rest.
She comes from heaven and on her wings doth bear
A holy fragrance, like the breath of prayer;
Footsteps of angels follow in her trace,
To shut the weary eyes of Day in peace.
All things are hushed before her, as she throws
O’er earth and sky her mantle of repose;
There is a calmer beauty, and a power
That Morning knows not, in the Evening’s hour.
Until the evening we must weep and toil—
Plough life’s stern furrow, dig the woody soil,
Tread with sad feet the rough and thorny way,
And bear the heat and burden of the day.
by Andrew Lang (1844-1912)
Ballade of Christmas Ghosts
Between the moonlight and the fire
In winter twilights long ago,
What ghosts we raised for your desire,
To make your merry blood run slow!
How old, how grave, how wise we grow!
No Christmas ghost can make us chill,
Save those that troop in mournful row,
The ghosts we all can raise at will!
The beasts can talk in barn and byre
On Christmas Eve, old legends know.
As year by year the years retire,
We men fall silent then I trow,
Such sights hath memory to show,
Such voices from the silence thrill,
Such shapes return with Christmas snow,—
The ghosts we all can raise at will.
Oh, children of the village choir,
Your carols on the midnight throw,
Oh, bright across the mist and mire,
Ye ruddy hearths of Christmas glow!
Beat back the dread, beat down the woe,
Let’s cheerily descend the hill;
Be welcome all, to come or go,
The ghosts we all can raise at will.
Friend, sursum corda, soon or slow
We part, like guests who’ve joyed their fill;
Forget them not, nor mourn them so,
The ghosts we all can raise at will.
by Alfred Tennyson (1809-1892)
The Birth of Christ
The time draws near the birth of Christ;
The moon is hid—the night is still;
The Christmas bells from hill to hill
Answer each other in the mist.
Four voices of four hamlets round,
From far and near, on mead and moor,
Swell out and fail, as if a door
Were shut between me and the sound.
Each voice four changes on the wind,
That now dilate and now decrease,
Peace and good-will, good-will and peace,
Peace and good-will to all mankind.
Rise, happy morn! rise, holy morn!
Draw forth the cheerful day from night;
O Father! touch the east, and light
The light that shone when hope was born!
by Joe Cone (1869-?1925)
The Christmas Feeling
I like the Christmas Feeling that is filling all the air,
That fills the streets and busy stores, and scatters everywhere;
I like the easy manner of the people on the street,
The bundle-laden people, and the shop-girls smiling sweet.
There’s a glow of warmth and splendor in the windows everywhere,
There’s a glow in people’s faces which has lately stolen there;
And everywhere the bells ring out with merry peal and chime,
Which makes me like the Feeling of the happy Christmas time.
I like the Christmas Feeling; there is nothing can compare
With the free and kindly spirit that is spreading everywhere;
And every heart for once is full of good old Christmas cheer.
I like to Feel the presents as they reach me day by day;
The presence of the presents drives my loneliness away.
To Feel that I’m remembered is a Feeling most sublime,
The Feeling of the Feeling of the happy Christmas time.
by Margaret Deland (1857-1945)
The Christmas Silence
Hushed are the pigeons cooing low
On dusty rafters of the loft;
And mild-eyed oxen, breathing soft,
Sleep on the fragrant hay below.
Dim shadows in the corner hide;
The glimmering lantern’s rays are shed
Where one young lamb just lifts his head,
Then huddles ‘gainst his mother’s side.
Strange silence tingles in the air;
Through the half-open door a bar
Of light from one low-hanging star
Touches a baby’s radiant hair.
No sound: the mother, kneeling, lays
Her cheek against the little face.
Oh human love! Oh heavenly grace!
‘Tis yet in silence that she prays!
Ages of silence end to-night;
Then to the long-expectant earth
Glad angels come to greet His birth
In burst of music, love, and light!
by William Wordsworth (1770-1850)
Church Decking at Christmas
Would that our scrupulous sires had dared to leave
Less scanty measure of those graceful rites
And usages, whose due return invites
A stir of mind too natural to deceive;
Giving the memory help when she could weave
A crown for Hope!—I dread the boasted lights
That all too often are but fiery blights,
Killing the bud o’er which in vain we grieve.
Go, seek, when Christmas snows discomfort bring,
The counter Spirit found in some gay church
Green with fresh holly, every pew a perch
In which the linnet or the thrush might sing,
Merry and loud, and safe from prying search,
Strains offered only to the genial spring.
by William Barnes (1801-1886)
The Farmer’s Invitation
Come down to-marra night; an’ mind
Don’t leave thy fiddle-bag behind.
We’ll shiake a lag, an’ drink a cup
O’ yal to kip wold Chris’mas up.
An’ let thy sister tiake thy yarm,
The wa’k woont do ‘er any harm:
Ther’s noo dirt now to spwile her frock
Var ‘t a-vroze so hard ‘s a rock.
Ther bent noo stranngers that ‘ull come,
But only a vew naighbors: zome
Vrom Stowe, an’ Combe; an’ two ar dree
Vrom uncles up at Rookery.
An’ thee woot vind a ruozy fiace,
An’ pair ov eyes so black as sloos,
The pirtiest oones in al the pliace.
I’m sure I needen tell thee whose.
We got a back-bran’, dree girt logs
So much as dree ov us can car:
We’ll put ’em up athirt the dogs,
An’ miake a vier to the bar.
An’ ev’ry oone wull tell his tiale,
An’ ev’ry oone wull zing his zong,
An’ ev’ry oone wull drink his yal,
To love an’ frien’ship al night long.
We’ll snap the tongs, we’ll have a bal,
We’ll shiake the house, we’ll rise the ruf,
We’ll romp an’ miake the maidens squal,
A catchen o’m at bline-man’s buff.
Zoo come to marra night, an’ mind
Don’t leave thy fiddle-bag behind.
We’ll shiake a lag, an’ drink a cup
O’ yal to kip wold Chris’mas up.
The First Roman Christmas
It was the calm and silent night!
Seven hundred years and fifty-three
Had Rome been growing up to might,
And now was queen of land and sea.
No sound was heard of clashing wars,
Peace brooded o’er the hushed domain;
Apollo, Pallas, Jove, and Mars
Held undisturbed their ancient reign,
In the solemn midnight
Centuries ago.
‘Twas in the calm and silent night!
The senator of haughty Rome
Impatient urged his chariot’s flight,
From lonely revel rolling home.
Triumphal arches, gleaming, swell
His breast with thoughts of boundless sway;
What recked the Roman what befell
A paltry province far away
In the solemn midnight
Centuries ago?
Within that province far away
Went plodding home a weary boor;
A streak of light before him lay,
Fallen through a half-shut stable-door,
Across his path. He passed; for naught
Told what was going on within.
How keen the stars! his only thought;
The air how calm, and cold, and thin!
In the solemn midnight
Centuries ago.
O strange indifference! Low and high
Drowsed over common joys and cares;
The earth was still, but knew not why;
The world was listening unawares.
How calm a moment may precede
One that shall thrill the world forever!
To that still moment none would heed,
Man’s doom was linked, no more to sever,
In the solemn midnight
Centuries ago.
It is the calm and solemn night!
A thousand bells ring out and throw
Their joyous peals abroad, and smite
The darkness, charmed, and holy now!
The night that erst no name had worn,
To it a happy name is given;
For in that stable lay, new-born,
The peaceful Prince of earth and heaven,
In the solemn midnight
Centuries ago.
Anonymous
The Knighting of the Sirloin of Beef by Charles the Second
The Second Charles of England
Rode forth one Christmas tide,
To hunt a gallant stag of ten,
Of Chingford woods the pride.
The winds blew keen, the snow fell fast,
And made for earth a pall,
As tired steeds and wearied men
Returned to Friday Hall.
The blazing logs, piled on the dogs,
Were pleasant to behold!
And grateful was the steaming feast
To hungry men and cold.
With right good-will all took their fill,
And soon each found relief;
Whilst Charles his royal trencher piled
From one huge loin of beef.
Quoth Charles, “Odd’s fish! a noble dish!
Ay, noble made by me!
By kingly right, I dub thee knight—
Sir Loin henceforward be!”
And never was a royal jest
Received with such acclaim:
And never knight than good Sir Loin
More worthy of the name.
Anonymous
Madonna and Child
This endris night
I saw a sight,
A star as bright as day;
And ever among
A maiden sung,
Lullay, by by, lullay.
This lovely lady sat and sang, and to her child she said,—
“My son, my brother, my father dear, why liest thou thus in hayd?
My sweet bird,
Thus it is betide
Though thou be king veray;
But, nevertheless,
I will not cease
To sing, by by, lullay.”
The child then spake; in his talking he to his mother said,—
“I bekid am king, in crib though I be laid;
For angels bright
Down to me light,
Thou knowest it is no nay,
And of that sight
Thou mayest be light
To sing, by by, lullay.”
“Now, sweet Son, since thou art king, why art thou laid in stall?
Why not thou ordain thy bedding in some great kingès hall?
Methinketh it is right
That king or knight
Should be in good array;
And them among
It were no wrong
To sing, by by, lullay.”
“Mary, mother, I am thy child, though I be laid in stall,
Lords and dukes shall worship me and so shall kingès all.
Ye shall well see
That kingès three
Shall come on the twelfth day;
For this behest
Give me thy breast
And sing, by by, lullay.”
“Now tell me, sweet Son, I thee pray, thou art my love and dear,
How should I keep thee to thy pay and make thee glad of cheer?
For all thy will
I would fulfil
Thou weet’st full well in fay,
And for all this
I will thee kiss,
And sing, by by, lullay.”
“My dear mother, when time it be, take thou me up aloft,
And set me upon thy knee and handle me full soft.
And in thy arm
Thou wilt me warm,
And keep me night and day;
If I weep
And may not sleep
Thou sing, by by, lullay.”
“Now, sweet Son, since it is so, all things are at thy will,
I pray thee grant to me a boon if it be right and skill,
That child or man,
That will or can,
Be merry upon my day;
To bliss them bring,
And I shall sing,
Lullay, by by, lullay.”
by William Makepeace Thackeray (1811-1863)
The Mahogany-Tree
Christmas is here;
Winds whistle shrill,
Icy and chill,
Little care we;
Little we fear
Weather without,
Sheltered about
The Mahogany-Tree.
Once on the boughs
Birds of rare plume
Sang in its bloom;
Night-birds are we;
Here we carouse,
Singing, like them,
Perched round the stem
Of the jolly old tree.
Here let us sport,
Boys, as we sit—
Laughter and wit
Flashing so free.
Life is but short—
When we are gone,
Let them sing on,
Round the old tree.
Evenings we knew,
Happy as this;
Faces we miss,
Pleasant to see.
Kind hearts and true,
Gentle and just,
Peace to your dust!
We sing round the tree.
Care like a dun,
Lurks at the gate;
Let the dog wait;
Happy we’ll be!
Drink, every one;
Pile up the coals;
Fill the red bowls,
Round the old tree!
Drain we the cup.—
Friend, art afraid?
Spirits are laid
In the Red Sea.
Mantle it up;
Empty it yet;
Let us forget,
Round the old tree!
Sorrows begone!
Life and its ills,
Duns and their bills,
Bid we to flee.
Come with the dawn,
Blue-devil sprite;
Leave us to-night,
Round the old tree!
by M. Nightingale
Mary Had A Little Lamb
The Blessed Mary had a lamb,
It too was white as snow,
Far whiter than I ever am—
Always and always so.
She found it lying in the stall
Wherefrom the oxen fed,
With hay for bedding, hay for shawl,
And hay beneath its head.
She followed near it every day
In all the paths it trod,
She knew her lamb could never stray
(It was the Lamb of God).
And when the cloud of angels came
And hid It from her sight,
Its heart was near her all the same
Because her own was white.
So when she slept white lilies screened
Her sleep from all alarms,
Till from His Throne her white lamb leaned
And waked her in His Arms.
by Robert Herrick (1591-1674)
The New-Years Gift
Let others look for pearl and gold
Tissues, or tabbies manifold;
One only lock of that sweet hay
Whereon the Blessed Baby lay,
Or one poor swaddling-clout, shall be
The richest New-Year’s gift to me.
by Robert Herrick (1591-1674)
The New-Years Gift Sent to Sir Simeon Steward
No news of navies burnt at sea,
No noise of late-spawned Tityries,
No closet plot or open vent
That frights men with a Parliament:
No new device or late-found trick,
To read by the stars the kingdom’s sick;
No gin to catch the State, or wring
The free-born nostrils of the king,
We send to you, but here a jolly
Verse crowned with ivy and with holly;
That tells of winter’s tales and mirth
That milkmaids make about the hearth,
Of Christmas sports, the wassail-bowl,
That’s tost up after fox-i’-th’-hole;
Of Blindman-buff, and of the care
That young men have to shoe the mare;
Of Twelve-tide cake, of peas and beans,
Wherewith ye make those merry scenes,
When as ye choose your king and queen,
And cry out: Hey, for our town green!
Of ash-heaps, in the which ye use
Husbands and wives by streaks to choose;
Of crackling laurel, which foresounds
A plenteous harvest to your grounds;
Of these and such like things, for shift,
We send instead of New-Year’s gift:
Read then, and when your faces shine
With buxom meat and cap’ring wine,
Remember us in cups full-crowned,
And let our city-health go round,
Quite through the young maids and the men
To the ninth number, if not ten;
Until the fired chestnuts leap
For joy to see the fruits ye reap
From the plump chalice and the cup
That tempts till it be tosséd up.
Then, as ye sit about your embers,
Call not to mind those fled Decembers;
But think on these that are to appear
As daughters to the instant year;
Sit crowned with rose-buds, and carouse,
Till Liber Pater twirls the house
About your ears; and lay upon
The year, your cares, that’s fled and gone.
And let the russet swains the plough
And harrow hang up resting now;
And to the bagpipe all address
Till sleep takes place of weariness;
And thus, throughout, with Christmas plays
Frolic the full twelve holydays.
by Robert Herrick (1591-1674)
Saint Distaff’s Day, the Morrow After Twelfth Day
Partly work and partly play
Ye must on St. Distaff’s day;
From the plough soon free your team,
Then come home and fodder them;
If the maids a-spinning go,
Burn the flax and fire the tow;
Scorch their plackets, but beware
That ye singe no maiden-hair;
Bring in pails of water then,
Let the maids bewash the men;
Give St. Distaff all the right,
Then bid Christmas sport good-night,
And next morrow every one
To his own vocation.
Anonymous
Santa Claus
He comes in the night! He comes in the night!
He softly, silently comes;
While the little brown heads on the pillows so white
Are dreaming of bugles and drums.
He cuts through the snow like a ship through the foam,
While the white flakes around him whirl;
Who tells him I know not, but he findeth the home
Of each good little boy and girl.
His sleigh it is long, and deep, and wide;
It will carry a host of things,
While dozens of drums hang over the side,
With the sticks sticking under the strings:
And yet not the sound of a drum is heard,
Not a bugle blast is blown,
As he mounts to the chimney-top like a bird,
And drops to the hearth like a stone.
The little red stockings he silently fills,
Till the stockings will hold no more;
The bright little sleds for the great snow hills
Are quickly set down on the floor.
Then Santa Claus mounts to the roof like a bird,
And glides to his seat in the sleigh;
Not the sound of a bugle or drum is heard
As he noiselessly gallops away.
He rides to the East, and he rides to the West,
Of his goodies he touches not one;
He eateth the crumbs of the Christmas feast
When the dear little folks are done.
Old Santa Claus doeth all that he can;
This beautiful mission is his;
Then, children, be good to the little old man,
When you find who the little man is.
by Edwin Lees
Signs of Christmas
When on the barn’s thatch’d roof is seen
The moss in tufts of liveliest green;
When Roger to the wood pile goes,
And, as he turns, his fingers blows;
When all around is cold and drear,
Be sure that Christmas-tide is near.
When up the garden walk in vain
We seek for Flora’s lovely train;
When the sweet hawthorn bower is bare,
And bleak and cheerless is the air;
When all seems desolate around,
Christmas advances o’er the ground.
When Tom at eve comes home from plough,
And brings the mistletoe’s green bough,
With milk-white berries spotted o’er,
And shakes it the sly maids before,
Then hangs the trophy up on high,
Be sure that Christmas-tide is nigh.
When Hal, the woodman, in his clogs,
Bears home the huge unwieldly logs,
That, hissing on the smould’ring fire,
Flame out at last a quiv’ring spire;
When in his hat the holly stands,
Old Christmas musters up his bands.
When cluster’d round the fire at night,
Old William talks of ghost and sprite,
And, as a distant out-house gate
Slams by the wind, they fearful wait,
While some each shadowy nook explore,
Then Christmas pauses at the door.
When Dick comes shiv’ring from the yard,
And says the pond is frozen hard,
While from his hat, all white with snow,
The moisture, trickling, drops below,
While carols sound, the night to cheer,
Then Christmas and his train are here.
by Charles Mackay (1814-1889)
Under the Holly-Bough
Ye who have scorned each other,
Or injured friend or brother,
In this fast-fading year;
Ye who, by word or deed,
Have made a kind heart bleed,
Come gather here!
Let sinned against and sinning
Forget their strife’s beginning,
And join in friendship now.
Be links no longer broken,
Be sweet forgiveness spoken
Under the Holly-Bough.
Ye who have loved each other,
Sister and friend and brother,
In this fast-fading year:
Mother and sire and child,
Young man and maiden mild,
Come gather here;
And let your heart grow fonder,
As memory shall ponder
Each past unbroken vow;
Old loves and younger wooing
Are sweet in the renewing
Under the Holly-Bough.
Ye who have nourished sadness,
Estranged from hope and gladness
In this fast-fading year;
Ye with o’erburdened mind,
Made aliens from your kind,
Come gather here.
Let not the useless sorrow
Pursue you night and morrow,
If e’er you hoped, hope now.
Take heart,—uncloud your faces,
And join in our embraces
Under the Holly-Bough.
In 1611, at age 42, Lanyer became the first woman to publish a book of poetry in English, 
Lanyer also may have been Jewish. If so, this would support the contention, being proffered by 
On the idea that Lanyer is Shakespeare’s Dark Lady, here is Peter Bassano, who is descended from her uncle Anthony, discussing this possibility in his article 
But first, how do we pose Aemilia Lanyer as we suppose from our perspectives? We pose her as a radical protestant, writing her fine religious poetry, and yet much of the information we have about her comes from “
Samina Malik was affected by the videos of beheading that were on the web, and decided to try her hand at the horror genre. A writer needs to be able to research, and explore sensitive territory, such as the info she downloaded–even live it to some degree, vis a vis Jack Kerouac. Period. And whether she is imprisoned for it or not, the next writer will do the same, whether he is imprisoned for it or not, and then the next.
There are criticisms that her writing is not really poetry, that its main purpose is to incite terrorist activity. Can we call instructions for beheading poetry at all? Here is a poem, written by 
