Poem by Thomas Hardy

Christmastide

The rain-shafts splintered on me
As despondently I strode;
The twilight gloomed upon me
And bleared the blank high-road.
Each bush gave forth, when blown on
By gusts in shower and shower,
A sigh, as it were sown on
In handfuls by a sower.

A cheerful voice called, nigh me,
‘A merry Christmas, friend!’ –
There rose a figure by me,
Walking with townward trend,
A sodden tramp’s, who, breaking
Into thin song, bore straight
Ahead, direction taking
Toward the Casuals’ gate.

1. The Aërolite
2. Genitrix Laesa
3. Song from Heine
4. Timing Her
5. Life and Death at Sunrise

Emily Johnson Christmastide ("I may not go to-night to Bethlehem")

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