• The bells of waiting Advent ring,
    The Tortoise stove is lit again
    And lamp-oil light across the night
    Has caught the streaks of winter rain.
    In many a stained-glass window sheen
    From Crimson Lake to Hooker's Green.

    The holly in the windy hedge
    And round the Manor House the yew
    Will soon be stripped to deck the ledge,
    The altar, font and arch and pew,
    So that villagers can say
    'The Church looks nice' on Christmas Day.

    Provincial public houses blaze
    And Corporation tramcars clang,
    On lighted tenements I gaze
    Where paper decorations hang,
    And bunting in the red Town Hall
    Says 'Merry Christmas to you all'

    And London shops on Christmas Eve
    Are strung with silver bells and flowers
    As hurrying clerks the City leave
    To pigeon-haunted classic towers,
    And marbled clouds go scudding by
    The many-steepled London sky.

    And girls in slacks remember Dad,
    And oafish louts remember Mum,
    And sleepless children's hearts are glad,
    And Christmas morning bells say 'Come!'
    Even to shining ones who dwell
    Safe in the Dorchester Hotel.

    And is it true? and is it true?
    The most tremendous tale of all,
    Seen in a stained-glass window's hue,
    A Baby in an ox's stall?
    The Maker of the stars and sea
    Become a Child on earth for me?

    And is it true? For if it is,
    No loving fingers tying strings
    Around those tissued fripperies,
    The sweet and silly Christmas things,
    Bath salts and inexpensive scent
    And hideous tie so kindly meant.

    No love that in a family dwells,
    No carolling in frosty air,
    Nor all the steeple-shaking bells
    Can with this single Truth compare -
    That God was Man in Palestine
    And lives to-day in Bread and Wine.