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Christmas Eve

by Ella Higginson, 1898

Straight thro’ a fold of purple mist
   The sun goes down—a crimson wheel—
And like an opal burns the sea
   That once was cold as steel.

With pomp of purple, gold and red,
   Thou wilt come back at morrow’s dawn...
But thou can’st never bring, O Sun,
   The Christmas that is gone!

Published in When the Birds Go North Again
Tags: beauty, christmas, gratitude

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