THE
MORNING
OF
CHRISTMAS EVE
It is the morn
Of Christmas Eve,
Scrambled eggs I cook.
Advent, Sunday,
Fourth and last
Most fasting now forsook.
The birds outside
Are singing carols
Pitched soprano-high.
Above the frost
Below the blue,
Their midnight moment nigh.
Then beasts will speak
In whispers low,
When Emmanuel did come,
How they could talk
And pray an hour...
While man was struck quite dumb.
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