The day’s loud footfalls die away,
And stealing forth from her retreat
Like a hooded nun, the twilight gray
Glides softly down the busy street.
With healing touch her gentle hand
Rests on the city’s fevered brow;
Its throbbing pulse is quiet now,
And peace descends on the weary land.
Since morn the dull December sky
Has wept and moaned incessantly;
The tall, gaunt forms of shivering trees
Have groaned and rattled their bony arms,
Till, startled by the restless breeze,
The withered sprites of summer leaves
Have gathered to whisper their vague alarms,
Now whirling aloft to the dripping eaves,
Now wavering slow to earth again,
Borne down by the pitiless, hopeless rain.
Upon my hearth the ruddy light
Dances and plays at the fire-dogs’ feet
Chasing the shadows out of sight;
Around the walls it follows them fast,
Hunts them into a corner at last,
Up the chimney, out into the night.
The blaze laughs loud with a music sweet,
My heart grows warm in its cheery glow,
And a thousand fancies come and go.
The perfumed breath of the birchen brand,
Rich with forest spices rare,
Bears heavenward many a hope and prayer
That only One can understand.
Oh that my life were sweet and pure
As the incense of this burning wood!
Oh that my faith were strong and sure
As the flame that ever strives toward God!
I hear the sound of the sleet and rain
Brushing against my window-pane;
The voice of the wind is sad and low,
The shadows return, and to and fro
They flit and hover uneasily,
Until at last they rest on me.
Heap high the sturdy fire-dogs’ backs
With boughs of hemlock, birch, and pine.
The crisp bark curls, and smokes, and cracks;
It comes at last, the spark divine,
And bursting forth in broad, free laughter,
The glorious blaze comes hurrying after,
Springs up the chimney with a roar,
Chasing the shadows away once more,
Shining far out upon the floor,
And sweeping away on its gladsome tide
The fears and doubts, o’er which I sighed,
To the depths of the sea, to the depths of the sea,—
The cares and sins that have haunted me!
I thank thee for thy help, sweet hour,
For thou hast helped me true and well;
I thank thee for the gentle spell
Beneath which thou dost wield thy power,
And when the twilight seeks at morn
Her convent walls within the west,
My soul shall know its truest rest,
And bless the day when Christ was born.