Clement Clarke Moore - Twas the Night Before Christmas

The famous holiday story "'Twas the Night Before Christmas,"  was originally written as a poem by Clement Clarke Moore and titled, "A Visit from St. Nicholas." Moore wrote the poem just for his own children in the 1820s, but it has become universal.

Below is the full text from the popular Christmas tale. The text is courtesy of the Poetry Foundation via “The Random House Book of Poetry for Children” (1983).

A Visit from St. Nicholas

by Clement Clarke Moore

'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house

Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse;

The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,

In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there;

The children were nestled all snug in their beds;

While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads;

And mamma in her 'kerchief, and I in my cap,

Had just settled our brains for a long winter's nap,

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,

I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter.

Away to the window I flew like a flash,

Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.

The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow,

Gave a lustre of midday to objects below,

When what to my wondering eyes did appear,

But a miniature sleigh and eight tiny rein-deer,

With a little old driver so lively and quick,

I knew in a moment he must be St. Nick.

More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,

And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name:

"Now, Dasher! now, Dancer! now Prancer and Vixen!

On, Comet! on, Cupid! on, Donner and Blitzen!

To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall!

Now dash away! dash away! dash away all!"

As leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,

When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky;

So up to the housetop the coursers they flew

With the sleigh full of toys, and St. Nicholas too—

And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof

The prancing and pawing of each little hoof.

As I drew in my head, and was turning around,

Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound.

He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot,

And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot;

A bundle of toys he had flung on his back,

And he looked like a pedler just opening his pack.

His eyes—how they twinkled! his dimples, how merry!

His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!

His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,

And the beard on his chin was as white as the snow;

The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,

And the smoke, it encircled his head like a wreath;

He had a broad face and a little round belly

That shook when he laughed, like a bowl full of jelly.

He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf,

And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself;

A wink of his eye and a twist of his head

Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread;

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,

And filled all the stockings; then turned with a jerk,

And laying his finger aside of his nose,

And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose;

He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,

And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.

But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight—

“Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night!”

More about the Poet and Poem

The Poet - Poetry Foundation: Clement Clarke Moore

The Poet - Wikipedia: Clement Clarke Moore 

The Poem - Wikipedia: "A Visit from St. Nicholas"

R.E. Slater - Rage On O' Spirit Valiant! (a poem)

Angel of Grief, by barrister, artist, and sculptor, William Wetmore Story

LOVE - what is love?
A great and aching heart;
Wrung hands; and silence;
and a long despair.

Life - what is life?
Upon a moorland bare
To see love coming
and see love depart.

- Robert Louis Stevenson

Rage On O' Spirit Valiant!

by R.E. Slater

Lifetimes are spent accepting what cannot be changed

        not realizing what can be, must be! Valiantly overthrown --

Pining against obstacles filling with deadening spaces,

        glazed with soulless gazes no longer running soulful race --
Nay be not disturbed this curmudgeoned race of men,
        when counting it all joy foreswearing its ponderous ruin.

Be not indifferent to thy weary soul's plenteous tasking burdens
        seeking fey justice's greater resurrection to societal revolution --
Moving without regret or wail its failing wanton plans,
        impassioned a fearless heart striving fraught maul or mail --
bearing hope where none exists nor dares to frailer thrive,
        uniting with crueler will to fulsome world's bright divide.

All purpose, meaning, and knowledge

        when grasped in hands of cold indifference --

Is useless, hidden, mocking,

        lest prying open its studied secrets --

From plenteous dead hands keeping it hushed,

        more fruitful voices cry out lusting heavenly bounty.

Yeah, when feeling overwhelmed to valiant tasks ahead

        take deep, measured, breaths, coupled in urgent prayer --

Inveighing the agony of days to waking regrets of hours or years,

        against all blackened turbulent waters churning desperately ahead --
Awake O' vision's spirit-quest enraged its writhing wraths,
        flung hard against all worthless sand structures built for sodden ruin!

Deriding legions of scoffers abreast their thrashing seas

        surprised upon the storms an ally or friend's twining collegial bond --

Hitherto unknown, unseen, but ever always present,

        granting glorious wings to thy grievous bonds embraced --

Who treds with thee the darkening paths of troublesome fiery fies,

        bearing pained hearts amid the deepest gleans of many a sightless woods.

Each wielding chaining bonds granting powerful allegiance

        against all scoffing scorners ever always present --

Wrought of cable and weight mocking pernicious perilous visions,
        disrupting very wheel-and-fortune of societies set afire --
Each bravely lit upon flaming mounds of fetid mould,
        plunging dauntless across redemption's spurning craven holds!



- R.E. Slater

December 4, 2014
rev. Dec 18, 24, 2014
rev. Mar 14, 2015

*The Quiet Man Within


@copyright R.E. Slater Publications

all rights reserved

Courage in Despair

by R.E. Slater

After several months of wandering in a wilderness barren of path, bereft of help, filled with scoffers, disbelievers, and without support, day's light has come again in the most surprising of places. For each previous day had been formed from a long list of previous days each holding voices of disbelief made of crueler intent. Each vouchsafing the task at hand to be improbable if not impossible. But in those days I came to discover that hardness and cruelty held brighter promise of daybreak, glorious dawns, and newer beginnings. Not the kind that bear rain clouds soon after but the kind requiring exploring, discovery, and adventure against a heart that could as well be overwhelmed to its doubts, disbelief, and despairs, as alike to the hearts of friends and follower watching nearby.

Nonetheless, what must be learned can be learned. And without one's own fortress of cheerless wilderness no discovery, movement, or burden may find its resolve, relief, or joy. For it is within this wilderness of wasteland and impregnated rock that beauty can be beheld if but for a moment's glimmer. A journey foresworn. A dream envisioned. Without which the hard thing cannot be achieved. The difficult thing unimagined. The perilous burden of the driven heart unappeased, unsatisfied, defeated, and destroyed.

It is as if the hand of God had fallen upon me without relief providing a brighter glimmer to an imagination that must be fulfilled if it were to find a resurrection within the duller glades of mankind. A relentless burden portending a new creation be made and yet, without the means to achieve its imagined space of beauty and grace. A space all the worse if it were to delve into the darkened hearts of men requiring a right-minded response where but few men can respond without first an inspiration to the very idea that has laid itself upon mine own heart now driving me mad.

An insanity few can grasp but all can understand. For who amongst us has never beheld a dream and not pursued this passion at least once in a lifetime beaten down by its rudeness, impossibilities, and despairs? No less is every great idea that would benefit the world of men which when birthed troubles both man and beast in a less clearer dawn, a more muddled day, filled with corruptibility and dauntless trouble when stripped from its maker's hand, mind, breast, and spirit. It is in these hands that the revelation must exist - must proceed by its own prophet and visionary - if it is to survive at all.

These are the terrible days yet to come to be given birth while in the mind of its beholder seeing all grand and glorious but fearing the harder days to come when a force of will must be applied against all forces of apathy and despair. A will once learned in the far-flung wildernesses that more timid souls had refused to trod. Who knew only to laugh or scorn within disbelieving breasts spurning entry. Wanting all the benefits of an imagination with none of the hard-learned lessons stripped of its agonies and delights, challenges and destructions, pleasures and fares. Then coming to an impassioned imagination to give it harm upon unenlightened, contemptible hearts, emptied of their own journey having fled from its burden years ago to there wait for benefit without sorrow. Feasts without famine. Payment without work. Entering into a thing that was once scoffed and refused but now thinking it is theirs to do with as it pleases themselves for harm or for good regardless its birthing prophet. This is the corruptibility portended in every hard won battle dearly fought then birthed into the hands of the less valiant, less truthful, more vain and rude of mankind.

DESPAIRING cries float ceaselessly toward me, day and night,

The sad voice of Death--the call of my nearest lover, putting forth,

alarmed, uncertain,

This sea I am quickly to sail, come tell me,

Come tell me where I am speeding--tell me my destination.

I understand your anguish, but I cannot help you,

I approach, hear, behold--the sad mouth, the look out of the eyes,

your mute inquiry,

Whither I go from the bed I now recline on, come tell me;

Old age, alarmed, uncertain--A young woman's voice appealing to me,

for comfort,

A young man's voice, Shall I not escape?

- Walt Whitman

Of Wandering Hearts and Crueler Forests

These are the crueler days to come. But now are the days that are. That rest in the dawn-days of rain and sorrow, sun and warmth, dripping with the dew showers of new rains, hope, contentedness and peace. Without which no day can proceed if all were dark and mean and cruel. These are the good days. The good times. The ones that drives every man and woman forward with gladness of heart and lightness of spirit. Days to be shared, savored, sipped, and dined. Without which no man or beast can go forward when touched by the consuming spirit of a God merciless in vision's consummation but gracious of heart and fortitude. A merciless spirit unto one never wishing for the incarnation of the divine. Never wanting the relentless burden. Consumed by the burdens of the very Creator-Redeemer Himself needing serving hands and feet, pained minds and hearts, filled with dauntless courage and a stupid willingness to go forward against all odds and dispirited ends.

Thus is the mad man. The one who sees a vision and is swallowed whole by its splendor. Who beholds the glory of God and must be hid in the crevices of the rock lest it burn him alive with its brighter rays of restless glory, dauntless journey, improbable destinies. Who feels the rush of the wind and cannot break free of its force held as it were within its mighty tides and whirling currents to there live in wild rage of mind and state. Once hearing the gentler voice singing in the wilderness of the harvester to come. Who must sow the seed and reap the wind and there be gripped by the divine whisperer whose very word cannot deter nor break the worshipping penitent so overwhelmed his soul to become very sower and reaper to Him who sings in the fastness of His templed springs.

A few grains of dust more or less

On ancient shoulders

Locks of weakness on weary foreheads

This theatre of honey and faded roses

Where incalculable flies

Reply to the black signs that misery makes to them

Despairing girders of a bridge

Thrown across space

Thrown across every street and every house

Heavy wandering madnesses

That we shall end by knowing by heart

Mechanical appetites and uncontrolled dances

That lead to the regret of hatred

Nostalgia of justice

- Paul Eluard

Unto Thy Templed Mounts We Tred

This is what is meant to be in the presence of the very God of fire and redemption. Who sees all possibilities with all opportunities and lays His very soul within our own fleshly breast to be consumed by its very touch. But to refuse is to lose ourselves and be eaten away every day by its want and destruction. But to dutifully accept this call may mean even still all ruin and destruction. And yet, the surer promise is that of finding oneself in the lostness of our wandering hearts full of its own wildernesses of doubt and dismay. Daring not to believe when all belief is possible. All dreams probably. All hope more believable than when first thought. Unto each man, each woman, is born this spirit of creation-redemption. May it be bounteously so to the willing breast clasping the Spirit-bred hopes and dreams.

R.E. Slater

December 4, 2014

*sic, An Introduction to Retelling the Story of Young Men and Fire

@copyright R.E. Slater Publications

all rights reserved

AS Love and Hope together
Walk by me for a while,
Link-armed the ways they travel
For many a pleasant mile -
Link-armed and dumb they travel,
They sing not, but they smile.

Hope leaving, Love commences
To practise on the lute;
And as he sings and travels
With lingering, laggard foot,
Despair plays obligato
The sentimental flute.

Until in singing garments
Comes royally, at call -
Comes limber-hipped Indiff'rence
Free stepping, straight and tall -
Comes singing and lamenting,
The sweetest pipe of all. 

- Robert Louis Stevenson

James Sant (1820-1916), Courage, Anxiety, and Despair Watching the Battle | Oil on canvas