THE HOLY TIDE
by: Frederick Tennyson
(1807-1898)
- HE days are sad, it is the Holy
tide.
- The Winter morn is short, the Night is long;
- So let the lifeless Hours be glorified
- With deathless thoughts and echo'd in sweet song:
- And through the sunset of this purple cup
- They will resume the roses of their prime,
- And the old Dead will hear us and wake up,
- Pass with dim smiles and make our hearts sublime!
-
- The days are sad, it is the Holy tide:
- Be dusky mistletoes and hollies strown,
- Sharp as the spear that pierced His sacred side,
- Red as the drops upon His thorny crown;
- No haggard Passion and no lawless Mirth
- Fright off the solemn Muse,--tell sweet old tales,
- Sing songs as we sit brooding o'er the hearth,
- Till the lamp flickers and the memory fails.
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