These poems could only ever be about the celebration of Christmas Day, one of the high points of the Christian calendar.
I have chosen Christina Rossetti’s “In the Bleak Mid-Winter”, Sara Teasdale’s “Christmas Carol” and Walter de la Mare’s “Mistletoe”. As we reach the end of a difficult year, I can only hope that you have all enjoyed the selections of poetry I have made so far and I wish you all a peaceful and happy Christmas.
Poem 118. In the Bleak Mid-Winter
Yet what I can I give Him, —
Christina Rossetti (1830—1894)
Give my heart.
In the bleak mid-winter
Frosty wind made moan;
Earth stood hard as iron,
Water like a stone;
Snow had fallen, snow on snow,
Snow on snow,
In the bleak mid-winter
Long ago.
Our God, heaven cannot hold Him
Nor earth sustain,
Heaven and earth shall flee away
When He comes to reign:
In the bleak mid-winter
A stable-place sufficed
The Lord God Almighty —
Jesus Christ.
Enough for Him, whom cherubim
Worship night and day,
A breastful of milk
And a mangerful of hay;
Enough for Him, whom Angels
Fall down before,
The ox and ass and camel
Which adore.
Angels and Archangels
May have gathered there,
Cherubim and seraphim
Thronged the air;
But only His Mother
In her maiden bliss
Worshipped the Beloved
With a kiss.
What can I give Him,
Poor as I am? —
If I were a Shepherd
I would bring a lamb;
If I were a Wise Man
I would do my part, —
Yet what I can I give Him, —
Give my heart.
Christina Rossetti tells us the story of the Nativity, layering the snows of mid-winter onto the ancient tale of Christ’s birth. The first stanza is such a graphic evocation of the cold winds and deep snow of winter and makes this poem such a recognisable Christmas carol.
The second stanza tells us of the power of God when he comes for the second time and contrasts that with the humble beginnings of Jesus Christ. The third and fourth stanzas emphasise this contrast between the heavenly power of God and the simplicity of the manger and his mother.
The fourth stanza asks what gift a destitute person can bring since they have no possessions or wisdom to offer, so they can tender nothing but their heart—their belief, and that is all that is necessary.
Links
- Read about the poem on Wikipedia.
Poem 119. Christmas Carol
The wise men came from out the east,
Sara Teasdale (1884—1933)
And they were wrapped in white;
The star that led them all the way
Did glorify the night.
The kings they came from out the south,
All dressed in ermine fine;
They bore Him gold and chrysoprase,
And gifts of precious wine.
The shepherds came from out the north, Their coats were brown and old; They brought Him little new-born lambs— They had not any gold.
The wise men came from out the east, And they were wrapped in white; The star that led them all the way Did glorify the night.
The angels came from heaven high, And they were clad with wings; And lo, they brought a joyful song The host of heaven sings.
The kings they knocked upon the door, The wise men entered in, The shepherds followed after them To hear the song begin.
The angels sang through all the night
Until the rising sun,
But little Jesus fell asleep
Before the song was done.
This poem tells the Christmas story in a different way, emphasising the visitors to the manger and their gifts. Sara Teasdale says nothing of the humble souls who have nothing to bring but their belief. I feel this poem has almost a comic ending—all these visitors: kings, shepherds, wise men and angels are singing his praises but Jesus (as babies are wont to do) falls asleep before their praise and adulation are done.
Poem 120. Mistletoe
Tired I was; my head would go
Walter de la Mare (1873—1956)
Nodding under the mistletoe
(Pale-green, fairy mistletoe)
Sitting under the mistletoe
(Pale-green, fairy mistletoe),
One last candle burning low,
All the sleepy dancers gone,
Just one candle burning on,
Shadows lurking everywhere:
Some one came, and kissed me there.
Tired I was; my head would go
Nodding under the mistletoe
(Pale-green, fairy mistletoe),
No footsteps came, no voice, but only,
Just as I sat there, sleepy, lonely,
Stooped in the still and shadowy air
Lips unseen—and kissed me there.
Walter de la Mare changes the subject here—his poem says nothing of the nativity but suggests rather the air of mystery of “The Listeners”—who is it that comes unseen and unheard and kisses the narrator as he sits under the mistletoe (pale-green fairy mistletoe)?
I like to think that the narrator is like me, a widower missing a much-loved wife and when he sits, nodding with sleep, in a darkened room where the shadows are the only dancers, she comes to him and brings him solace with a kiss. Sentimental, I expect, but it is the image that comes to my mind’s eye.