Here you will find the Poem The Strangers of poet Walter de la Mare
Dim-berried is the mistletoe With globes of sheenless grey, The holly mid ten thousand thorns Smoulders its fires away; And in the manger Jesus sleeps This Christmas Day. Bull unto bull with hollow throat Makes echo every hill, Cold sheep in pastures thick with snow The air with bleating fill; While of his mother?s heart this Babe Takes His sweet will. All flowers and butterflies lie hid, The blackbird and the thrush Pipe but a little as they flit Restless from bush to bush Even to the robin Gabriel hath Cried softly `Hush!? Now night?s astir with burning stars In darkness of the snow; Burdened with frankincense and myrrh And gold the Strangers go Into a dusk where one dim lamp Burns softly, lo! No snowdrop yet its small head nods In winds of winter drear; No lark at casement in the sky Sings matins shrill and clear; Yet in this frozen mirk the Dawn Breathes, Spring is here!
