Poetry Archives

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.

A single peal of bells below,
  That wakens at this hour of rest
  A single murmur in the breast,
That these are not the bells I know.

Like strangers’ voices here they sound,
  In lands where not a memory strays,
  Nor landmark breathes of other days,
But all is new unhallow’d ground.