page 51

Yule

To you, Lady, at this hour, it may be, watching winter mists
Weave their white webs about the woodlands of your villeggiatura,
I would say that here, to-night, my white rose Silver Moon
Swings her soft cloudy wreaths above the lucent ranks
Of white-robed lilies, Gabriel’s lilies, Christmas lilies,
Whose incense wafted wide mounts up into the welkin,
While our midsummer twilight resolves itself to stars.

But now our calm antipodean vigil
Saluted is by old accustomed strains
And I must go give sixpence to the Army lass
Whose band below there at the cross-roads
Plays conscientiously for tribute—
    Nowel—Nowel—Nowel—Nowel—