Library Loot: November 20 to 26
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Showing posts with label Christmas verse. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Christmas verse. Show all posts
25 December 2023
Bliss Carman's 'Christmas Song'
25 December 2022
'Christmas' by S. Frances Harrison
CHRISTMAS
Who will sing the Christ?Will he who rang his Christmas chimesOf faith and hope in Gospel ray,That pealed along the world's highway,And woke the world to purer times—Will he sing the Christ?Or that new voice which vaguely gives—One day its song for Rome—the next,In soul-destroying strife perplextFor England's faith and future livesShall he sing the Christ?Or the sweet children in the schools,That hymn their carols hand-in-handAll purely, can they understandThe wisdom that must make us fools—Can they sing the Christ?Or yearning priest who to his kindFrom carven pulpit gives the Word,Or praying mother who has erred,And blindly led her erring blind—Have they not sung the Christ?"Lord! I of sinners am the chief!"One, seated by his Christmas fires,Hearkens the bells from distant spires,But hangs his head in unbelief—He cannot sing the Christ.Grant to such, Lord, the seeing eye!Grant as the World grows old and cold,All hearts Thy beauty may behold.Grant, lest the souls of sinners die—That All may sing the Christ.
—From S. Frances Harrison's Pine, Rose and Fleur de Lis (Toronto: Hart & Co, 1891)
Merry Christmas from our home to yours!
Related posts:
25 December 2021
'A Child's Song of Christmas' by Marjorie Pickthall
Related posts:
25 December 2020
'A Mother at Christmas' by Edna Jaques
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| Maclean's, 15 December 1934 |
24 December 2020
'Old Lady Christmas Shopping' by Edna Jaques
25 December 2019
'A Christmas Fantasy' by Bernard Freeman Trotter
For the day, Christmas verse by a twenty-one-year-old Bernard Freeman Trotter, taken from A Canadian Twilight and Other Poems of War and Peace (Toronto: McClelland & Stewart, 1917).
Happy Christmas!
Related posts:
A Century-Old Prayer for Christmas
Timely Verse from a Christmas a Century Past
Christmas Greetings from Gay Page
Timely Verse from a Christmas a Century Past
Christmas Greetings from Gay Page
25 December 2018
'When Christmas Comes' by Virna Sheard
Verse for the day by Virna Sheard (née Stanton), daughter of Cobourg, Ontario, from her collection The Miracle and Other Poems (Toronto: Dent, 1913).
WHEN CHRISTMAS COMES
For thee, my small one—trinkets and new toys,
The wine of life and all its keenest joys,
When Christmas comes.
For me, the broken playthings of the past
That in my folded hands I still hold fast,
When Christmas comes.
For thee, fair hopes of all that yet may be,
And tender dreams of sweetest mystery,
When Christmas comes.
For thee, the future in a golden haze,
For me, the memory of some bygone days,
When Christmas comes.
For thee, the things that lightly come and go,
For thee, the holly and the mistletoe,
When Christmas comes.
For me, the smiles that are akin to tears,
For me, the frost and snows of many years,
When Christmas comes.
For thee, the twinkling candles bright and gay,
For me, the purple shadows and the grey,
When Christmas comes.
For thee, the friends that greet thee at the door,
For me, the faces I shall see no more,
When Christmas comes.
But ah, for both of us the mystic starA Merry Christmas to all!
That leadeth back to Bethlehem afar,
When Christmas comes.
For both of us the child they saw of old,
That evermore his mother's arms enfold,
When Christmas comes.
Related posts:
A Century-Old Prayer for Christmas
Timely Verse from a Christmas a Century Past
Christmas Greetings from Gay Page
Timely Verse from a Christmas a Century Past
Christmas Greetings from Gay Page
03 December 2018
Robert W. Service's Revised Christmas Miracle (with the poet's forgotten reading instructions)
Much of this past weekend was spent in preparation for Christmas, but I did manage a couple of hours with the December 1918 edition of Maclean's. The first to hit news stands after the Armistice, it makes for very interesting reading. The opening piece, a column titled "The Business Outlook," reminds that Maclean's started out as The Business Magazine. It begins:
Peace came with a suddenness that has left the world a little breathless. Men of discernment had predicted from the very first that, when Germany once began to crack, the end would follow within a short period. But who was there bold enough at any time before September of the present year to stand out and say that the break-up would have come before the New Year?
I doubt Maclean's editor Thomas B. Costain saw the break-up coming. How else to explain American John J. Pershing instead of, say, Sir Arthur Currie, on the magazine's first post-war cover? Even the advertising department appears to have been caught off guard:
"Now That the War is Won" by Lieut-Col J.B. Maclean, is the only article that looks to have been commissioned après la guerre. And it's very short. Other articles include "An Unsolved Mystery: A Story of Warfare Under the Earth" by Lieut C. W. Tilbrook and an interview with the U.S. Secretary of War conducted by Pvt Harold R. Peat (Mrs Peat has an article of her own in the "Women and Their Work" section). Fiction fairly dominates the issue, with short stories and serialized novels by W. Victor Cook, W.A. Fraser, Allan C. Shore, Arthur Stringer and Alice Muriel Williamson. Sadly, Shore's "Santa Clause in Petticoats" isn't nearly as titillating as its title, but Stringer's story is fantastic.
All this fiction! As the advert suggests, something to take a soldier's mind off the grim realities that he faces:
The same could be said for those on the home front, though neither would've found escape in 'The Wife' by Robert Service, the issue's only verse. I thought I knew the poem, but I was wrong. An unfamiliar note at the end had me hunting for my copy of Service's Ballads of a Bohemian (1921), in which 'The Wife' was reprinted. Sure enough, the note isn't there – and there are other significant differences:
All this fiction! As the advert suggests, something to take a soldier's mind off the grim realities that he faces:
The same could be said for those on the home front, though neither would've found escape in 'The Wife' by Robert Service, the issue's only verse. I thought I knew the poem, but I was wrong. An unfamiliar note at the end had me hunting for my copy of Service's Ballads of a Bohemian (1921), in which 'The Wife' was reprinted. Sure enough, the note isn't there – and there are other significant differences:
THE WIFE
[Maclean's, December 1918]
"Tell Annie I’ll be home in time
To help her with her Christmastree."
That’s what he wrote. . . Now hark the chime
Of Christmas bells—and where is he?
And how the house is dark and still!
And Annie’s sobbing on my knee.
The page beside the candle flame
With cramped and cruel type was filled;
I read and read, until a name
Leapt at me. . . Oh! my heart was stilled!
My eye crept up the column, up
Unto its hateful heading: KILLED.
And there was Annie on the stair:
"And will he not be long?" she said.
Her eyes were stars and in her hair
She’d tied a bit of ribband red;
And every step was Daddy’s sure;
Till wearied out, she stole to bed.
And in the quiet of the night
Alone I decked the Christmas tree.
On every little ticket bright,
My tears were falling bitterly;
And in the street I heard them call.
"Another Splendid Victory."
A Victory! What care I now?
A thousand victories were vain.
Here in my ruined hearth I vow
From out my black abyss of pain,
I’d rather, rather red defeat,
And have my man, my again.
Aye, cowering by my cold fireplace,
My orphaned child upon my knee,
What care I for their Empire's pride,
Their pomp and power beyond the sea?
I'd gladly see it lost and lost
Could that bring back my dead to me.
"But come, my dear; we will not wait.
Each tiny candle pink and white.
We'll set aglow—he may be late,
And we must ave all gay and bright."
(One makes mistakes. I’ll tell myself
I did not read that name aright.)
"Come, Annie, come, We two will pray
For homes bereft of happiness;
For husbands fighting far away;
For little children fatherless.
Beside the shining tree we'll pray:
"'Oh, Father dear, protect and bless. . . Protect and bless. . .'"
* * * *
What’s that? A step upon the stair!
A rush! The door thrown open wide!
My hero and my love! He's there,
And Annie’s laughing by his side. . .
I'm in his arms. . . I faint. . . I faint. . .
"Oh, God! Thy world is glorified."
NOTE.—The author wishes it understood that the sentiments expressed with reference to duty and the war are to be taken as an uncontrollable outburst in the first moments of bereavement, and not as in any sense an expression of opinion.
THE WIFE
[Ballads of a Bohemian, New York: Barse & Hopkins, 1921]"Tell Annie I’ll be home in time
To help her with her Christmas-tree."
That’s what he wrote, and hark! the chime
Of Christmas bells, and where is he?
And how the house is dark and sad,
And Annie’s sobbing on my knee!
The page beside the candle-flame
With cruel type was overfilled;
I read and read until a name
Leapt at me and my heart was stilled:
My eye crept up the column—up
Unto its hateful heading: Killed.
And there was Annie on the stair:
"And will he not be long?" she said.
Her eyes were bright and in her hair
She’d twined a bit of riband red;
And every step was daddy’s sure,
Till tired out she went to bed.
And there alone I sat so still,
With staring eyes that did not see;
The room was desolate and chill,
And desolate the heart of me;
Outside I heard the news-boys shrill:
"Another Glorious Victory!"
A victory. . . . Ah! what care I?
A thousand victories are vain.
Here in my ruined home I cry
From out my black despair and pain,
I’d rather, rather damned defeat,
And have my man with me again.
They talk to us of pride and power,
Of Empire vast beyond the sea;
As here beside my hearth I cower,
What mean such words as these to me?
Oh, will they lift the clouds that low’r,
Or light my load in years to be
What matters it to us poor folk?
Who win or lose, it’s we who pay.
Oh, I would laugh beneath the yoke
If I had him at home to-day;
One’s home before one’s country comes:
Aye, so a million women say.
"Hush, Annie dear, don’t sorrow so."
(How can I tell her?) “See, we’ll light
With tiny star of purest glow
Each little candle pink and white."
(They make mistakes. I’ll tell myself
I did not read that name aright.)
Come, dearest one; come, let us pray
Beside our gleaming Christmas-tree;
Just fold your little hands and say
These words so softly after me:
"God pity mothers in distress,
And little children fatherless."
"God pity mothers in distress,
And little children fatherless."
* * * *
What’s that? – a step upon the stair;
A shout! – the door thrown open wide!
My hero and my man is there.
And Annie’s leaping by his side. . .
The room reels round, I faint, I fall. . .
"O God! Thy world is glorified."
The original is better, don't you think? The note's disappearance speaks volumes to the differences between wartime and peacetime.
A note of my own: Lest anyone complain that the title of this post spoils the final stanza of 'The Wife,' I point out that this C.W. Jefferys illustration accompanied it's appearance in Maclean's:
25 December 2017
Great War Christmas Verse from a Century Past
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| Lens, France 25 December 1917 |
Christmas Bells in War Time
From spire and tower, in silvery tune,
The chimes like birds take flight.
Where that golden boat, the moon,
Drifts slowly down the night.
Aloud, alert, alone they cease
And wake these midnight bells,
Proclaiming, through their calmer, Peace
Where Peace no longer dwells.
Yet chime by chime, like homing birds,
They float, soar up, recede,
A gust of old-time gladdening words
That back to Sorrow lead.
For as we listen, bell by bell,
They bring about us here
Our hotly dead who sleep so well
We dare not dream them near.
So be still blithe, O Bells, and gay.
Since through the old glad sound
Our dead come home this Christmas Day
From grave strewn Flanders' ground!
Related posts:
25 December 2016
'Christmas, 1916' by Robert Stanley Weir
from After Ypres and Other Poems
Robert Stanley Weir
Toronto: Musson, 1917
Related posts:
24 December 2016
A Century-Old Prayer for Christmas
from Canada First and Other Poems
James A. Ross
Toronto: McClelland & Stewart, 1920
Related posts:
25 December 2015
Timely Verse from Christmas a Century Past
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| The Globe, 25 December 1915 |
A CHRISTMAS STAR
Christmas chimes across the snow,
Can you ring the old refrain
When the world is seared with pain,
When the lights of joy burn low?
Lovely chimes across the snow,
Ring: May Peace be born again!
Hearts that ache amidst the mirth,
Can we sing the songs of cheer?
Those who sang with us last year
Strive afar on alien earth.
All our songs are little worth,
Broken, faltering, thrilled with fear.
Yet for thought space finds no bar;
Seas may part, but not divide;
Brothers, sons, our Country s pride,
Now we send our greeting far;
Lo, we set our love, a star
In your skies this Christmas-tide!
A Christmas poem by Elizabeth Roberts MacDonald, sister of Sir Charles G.D. Roberts, from Canadian Poems of the Great War, edited by John W. Garvin (Toronto: McClelland & Stewart, 1918).
A Merry Christmas to all!
Related posts:
25 December 2014
Christmas Verse by Master of All Poets James Gay
For the day, Victorian verse from Canada's Poet by James Gay, self-proclaimed Master of All Poets and Poet Laureate of Canada, of the Royal City of Guelph, Ontario.
Gay was a teetotal.
A Merry Christmas to all!
Related posts:
24 December 2014
Miss Machar's 'The Call of Christmas - 1914'
The title poem from Agnes Maule Machar's "The Call of Christmas – 1914". What can be said about this scarce chapbook? Who published it? When? Where? 'Tis a true Christmas miracle.
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19 December 2014
Arthur Stringer Pines for Christmas Past
Seasonal verse found in Arthur Stringer's The Woman in the Rain and Other Poems (Boston: Little, Brown, 1907). The writer was then living in New York with wife Jobyna Howland, 650 kilometres southeast of the London, Ontario, of his youth.
No apologies for the pun. It's brilliant.
Related post:
25 December 2013
Christmas Greetings from Gay Page!
from The Workshops and Other Poems
Gay Page (pseud. Florence N. Horner Sherk)
Fort William, ON: Times-Journal, 1919
Verse of Christmas past:
25 December 2012
Christmas Verse by Isabel Ecclestone Mackay
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| from Fires of Driftwood (Toronto: McClelland & Stewart, 1922) |
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