Christmas by John
Betjeman
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
Hookers 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 the villagers
can say
'The church looks nice'
on Christmas Day.
Provincial Public
Houses blaze,
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,
This 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 today in
Bread and Wine.
