Poems About Writing

A Literary Miss
by Oliver Marble

There once was a lit'rary miss;
And all that she needed for bliss
Was some ink and a pen,
Reams of paper, and then
Thirty days to describe half a kiss.

The World's Way

by Anonymous

He wrote his soul into a book.

The world refused to turn and look.

He made his faith into a rhyme,

And still the world could spare no time.

But on the day when, dumb and dazed,

Despair-condemned, and blind and crazed,

By means most weird his life he took,

Behold, the world brought out his book!

The Letter

by Emily Dickinson

"Going to him! Happy letter! Tell him —

Tell him the page I didn't write;

Tell him I only said the syntax,

And left the verb and the pronoun out.

Tell him just how the fingers hurried,

Then how they waded, slow, slow, slow;

And then you wished you had eyes in your pages,

So you could see what moved them so.

"Tell him it wasn't a practised writer,

You guessed, from the way the sentence toiled;

You could hear the bodice tug, behind you,

As if it held but the might of a child;

You almost pitied it, you, it worked so.

Tell him — No, you may quibble there,

For it would split his heart to know it,

And then you and I were silenter.

"Tell him night finished before we finished,

And the old clock kept neighing 'day!'

And you got sleepy and begged to be ended —

What could it hinder so, to say?

Tell him just how she sealed you, cautious,

But if he ask where you are hid

Until to-morrow, — happy letter!

Gesture, coquette, and shake your head!"

Free Verses

by Sarah Kirsch

Last night I awoke knew

That I should say goodbye now

To these verses. That's how it always goes

After a few years. They have to get out

Into the world. It's not possible to keep them

Forever! here under the roof.

Poor things. They must set out for town.

A few will be allowed to return later.

But most of them are still hanging around out there.

Who knows what will become of them. Before they

Find their peace.

Introduction to Poetry

by Billy Collins

I ask them to take a poem

and hold it up to the light
like a color slide

or press an ear against its hive.

I say drop a mouse into a poem

and watch him probe his way out,

or walk inside the poem's room
and feel the walls for a light switch.

I want them to waterski
across the surface of a poem
waving at the author's name on the shore.

But all they want to do
is tie the poem to a chair with rope
and torture a confession out of it.

They begin beating it with a hose
to find out what it really means.

The Art of Poetry

by Jorge Luis Borges

To gaze at a river made of time and water

and remember Time is another river.

To know we stray like a river

and our faces vanish like water.

To feel that waking is another dream

that dreams of not dreaming and that the death

we fear in our bones is the death

that every night we call a dream.

To see in every day and year a symbol

of all the days of man and his years,

and convert the outrage of the years

into a music, a sound, and a symbol.

To see in death a dream, in the sunset

a golden sadnesssuch is poetry,

humble and immortal, poetry,

returning, like dawn and the sunset.

Sometimes at evening there's a face

that sees us from the deeps of a mirror.

Art must be that sort of mirror,

disclosing to each of us his face.

They say Ulysses, wearied of wonders,

wept with love on seeing Ithaca,

humble and green. Art is that Ithaca,

a green eternity, not wonders.

Art is endless like a river flowing,

passing, yet remaining, a mirror to the same

inconstant Heraclitus, who is the same

and yet another, like the river flowing.

The Author to Her Book

by Anne Bradstreet (1612-1672)

THOU ill-form'd offspring of my feeble brain,

Who after birth did'st by my side remain,

Till snatcht from thence by friends, less wise than true

Who thee abroad, expos'd to publick view,

Made thee in raggs, halting to th' press to trudge,

Where errors were not lessened (all may judg).

At thy return my blushing was not small,

My rambling brat (in print) should mother call,

I cast thee by as one unfit for light,

Thy Visage was so irksome in my sight;

Yet being mine own, at length affection would

Thy blemishes amend, of so I could:

I wash'd thy face, but more defects I saw,

And rubbing off a spot, still made a flaw.

I stretcht thy joynts to make thee even feet,

Yet still thou run'st more hobling then is meet;

In better dress to trim thee was my mind,

But nought save home-spun Cloth, i'th' house I find.

In this array, 'mongst Vulgars mayst thou roam,

In Criticks hands, beware thou dost not come;

And take thy way where yet thou art not known,

If for thy Father askt, say, thou hadst none:

And for thy Mother, she alas is poor,

Which caus'd her thus to send thee out of door.

When I Met My Muse

by William Stafford

I glanced at her and took my glasses

off--they were still singing. They buzzed

like a locust on the coffee table and then

ceased. Her voice belled forth, and the

sunlight bent. I felt the ceiling arch, and

knew that nails up there took a new grip

on whatever they touched. "I am your own

way of looking at things," she said. "When

you allow me to live with you, every

glance at the world around you will be

a sort of salvation." And I took her hand.

To a Blank Sheet of Paper

by Oliver Wendell Holmes, Sr.

Wan-visaged thing! thy virgin leaf

To me looks more than deadly pale,

Unknowing what may stain thee yet,—

A poem or a tale.

Who can thy unborn meaning scan?

Can Seer or Sibyl read thee now?

No,— seek to trace the fate of man

Writ on his infant brow.

Love may light on thy snowy cheek,

And shake his Eden-breathing plumes;

Then shalt thou tell how Lelia smiles,

Or Angelina blooms.

Satire may lift his bearded lance,

Forestalling Time's slow-moving scythe,

And, scattered on thy little field,

Disjointed bards may writhe.

Perchance a vision of the night,

Some grizzled spectre, gaunt and thin,

Or sheeted corpse, may stalk along,

Or skeleton may grin!

If it should be in pensive hour

Some sorrow-moving theme I try,

Ah, maiden, how thy tears will fall,

For all I doom to die!

But if in merry mood I touch

Thy leaves, then shall the sight of thee

Sow smiles as thick on rosy lips

As ripples on the sea.

The Weekly press shall gladly stoop

To bind thee up among its sheaves;

The Daily steal thy shining ore,

To gild its leaden leaves.

Thou hast no tongue, yet thou canst speak,

Till distant shores shall hear the sound;

Thou hast no life, yet thou canst breathe

Fresh life on all around.

Thou art the arena of the wise,

The noiseless battle-ground of fame;

The sky where halos may be wreathed

Around the humblest name.

Take, then, this treasure to thy trust,

To win some idle reader's smile,

Then fade and moulder in the dust,

Or swell some bonfire's pile.

Tolkien Untangled with Poems, Songs, and More Video References

LOTR - Middle Earth Music & Ambience

(intended to be played when reading all that is set below)

3 hours

Being the last day of 2022 I wish to remember the poems and songs of JRR Tolkien speaking of love and lost, wander and thrall. Within the sad tales of Middle Earth comes bred upon the human breast a wistfulness for better days when fellowship no longer strives with ruin and evil. Where the grand majesties set deep upon the hearts of all beings cannot undo themselves by heavy lost but finds within a deeper courage and longing to aright wrongs done and all be redeemed by torn atoning struggles for peace and justice founded upon the shattered halls of love unremitting its trials and longings.

R.E. Slater

December 31, 2022

@copyright R.E. Slater Publications

all rights reserved

link to

INDEX - History of Tolkien's Middle-Earth

Rendition of Middle Earth with enlargement link

Middle Earth before and after the First Age

Elven Lands of the First Age

Elven Realms of the Third Age

The Elven Kingdom of Lothlorien

Within the Halls of Lothlorien

Rendition of Rivendale

Rendition of Rivendale

The Lays of the Grey Havens

"The LOTR is not about power and dominion

but about death and deathlessness." - JRRT

"Under the fading trees the land was silent." - Elven Lady Arwen

Lady Arwen, upon leaving the side of her Thrane and husband, Aragorn, and the whiten fortresses of Gondolin - where lay his tomb in the Hallows of Minas Tirith - thence journeyed onwards across Middle Earth to Lady Galadriel's remembered forest realms of Lothlorien. Then onwards to her Elven father Elrond's hidden realms founded upon the rocky chasms of Rivendale. And therefrom her father's lands Arwen thence turned westward towards the greensward troves of the misty Grey Havens once abounding it's vast inland and coastal realms under the tendering care of Elvish hands. Yet thereto did Arwen behold the fey wastelands conscripted in deeper losts than its lores and legends. For all she surveyed leaned upon her heavy heart the fast retreats of man's fourth age whose rule and imagination languished before her renown predecessor's gifted domains once wrapped in light and life within the deep and purposeful care of their Elven lord's faded dominions. - R.E. Slater

For Tolkien, as for his magical realms of lore and wisdom, time may be slowed but never stopped. Vast realms and traditions, cherished friendships and places, may for a time be preserved and protected yet all will eventually succumb to death and soulful reprocessing into the unknown realms beyond death's fast holds where new life and purpose may be rebourne, long journeys emended and renewed, and perhaps bound to brighter promises and hopes thought lost to time and eternity at death's hands.

R.E. Slater

December 31, 2022

@copyright R.E. Slater Publications

all rights reserved

The White Towers of Minas Tirith of Gondolin

Faithful Arwen beside beloved Aragorn's side in his State of Rest

Aragon's Tomb in the Hallows before the Citadel of Minas Tirith

Enya - Arwen's Song of Aragorn

* * * * * * * * *

A Tolkien Ensemble - The Song of Beren and Lúthien

Song of Beren and Lúthien

poem link

The leaves were long, the grass was green,

The hemlock-umbels tall and fair,

And in the glade a light was seen

Of stars in shadow shimmering.

Tinúviel was dancing there

To music of a pipe unseen,

And light of stars was in her hair,

And in her raiment glimmering.

There Beren came from mountains cold,

And lost he wandered under leaves,

And where the Elven-river rolled

He walked alone and sorrowing.

He peered between the hemlock-leaves

And saw in wonder flowers of gold

Upon her mantle and her sleeves,

And her hair like shadow following.

Enchantment healed his weary feet

That over hills were doomed to roam;

And forth he hastened, strong and fleet,

And grasped at moonbeams glistening.

Through woven woods in Elvenhome

She lightly fled on dancing feet,

And left him lonely still to roam

In the silent forest listening.

He heard there oft the flying sound

Of feet as light as linden-leaves,

Or music welling underground,

In hidden hollows quavering.

Now withered lay the hemlock-sheaves,

And one by one with sighing sound

Whispering fell the beechen leaves

In the wintry woodland wavering.

He sought her ever, wandering far

Where leaves of years were thickly strewn,

By light of moon and ray of star

In frosty heavens shivering.

Her mantle glinted in the moon,

As on a hilltop high and far

She danced, and at her feet was strewn

A mist of silver quivering.

When winter passed, she came again,

And her song released the sudden spring,

Like rising lark, and falling rain,

And melting water bubbling.

He saw the elven-flowers spring

About her feet, and healed again

He longed by her to dance and sing

Upon the grass untroubling.

Again she fled, but swift he came.

Tinúviel! Tinúviel!

He called her by her elvish name,

And there she halted listening.

One moment stood she, and a spell

His voice laid on her: Beren came,

And doom fell on Tinúviel

That in his arms lay glistening.

As Beren looked into her eyes

Within the shadows of her hair,

The trembling starlight of the skies

He saw there mirrored shimmering.

Tinúviel the elven-fair,

Immortal maiden elven-wise,

About him cast her shadowy hair

And arms like silver glimmering.

Long was the way that fate them bore,

O'er stony mountains cold and grey,

Through halls of iron and darkling door,

And woods of nightshade morrowless.

The Sundering Seas between them lay,

And yet at last they met once more,

And long ago they passed away

In the forest singing sorrowless.

The Song of Eärendil

poem link

Eärendil was a mariner that tarried in Arvernien;
he built a boat of timber felled
in Nimbrethil to journey in;
her sails he wove of silver fair,
of silver were her lanterns made,
her prow was fashioned like a swan,
and light upon her banners laid.

In panoply of ancient kings,
in chainéd rings he armoured him;
his shining shield was scored with runes
to ward all wounds and harm from him;
his bow was made of dragon-horn,
his arrows shorn of ebony;
of silver was his habergeon,
his scabbard of chalcedony;
his sword of steel was valiant,
of adamant his helmet tall,
an eagle-plume upon his crest,
upon his breast an emerald.

Beneath the Moon and under star
he wandered far from northern strands,
bewildered on enchanted ways
beyond the days of mortal lands.
From gnashing of the Narrow Ice
where shadow lies on frozen hills,
from nether heats and burning waste
he turned in haste, and roving still
on starless waters far astray
at last he came to Night of Naught,
and passed, and never sight he saw
of shining shore nor light he sought.
The winds of wrath came driving him,
and blindly in the foam he fled
from west to east and errandless,
unheralded he homeward sped.

There flying Elwing came to him,
and flame was in the darkness lit;
more bright than light of diamond
the fire upon her carcanet.
The Silmaril she bound on him
and crowned him with the living light
and dauntless then with burning brow
he turned his prow; and in the night
from Otherworld beyond the Sea
there strong and free a storm arose,
a wind of power in Tarmenel;
by paths that seldom mortal goes
his boat it bore with biting breath
as might of death across the grey
and long forsaken seas distressed;
from east to west he passed away.

Through Evernight he back was borne
on black and roaring waves that ran
o'er leagues unlit and foundered shores
that drowned before the Days began,
until he heard on strands of pearl
where ends the world the music long,
where ever-foaming billows roll
the yellow gold and jewels wan.
He saw the Mountain silent rise
where twilight lies upon the knees
of Valinor, and Eldamar
beheld afar beyond the seas.
A wanderer escaped from night
to haven white he came at last,
to Elvenhome the green and fair
where keen the air, where pale as glass
beneath the Hill of Ilmarin
a-glimmer in a valley sheer
the lamplit towers of Tirion
are mirrored on the Shadowmere.

He tarried there from errantry,
and melodies they taught to him,
and sages old him marvels told,
and harps of gold they brought to him.
They clothed him then in elven-white,
and seven lights before him sent,
as through the Calacirian
to hidden land forlorn he went.
He came unto the timeless halls
where shining fall the countless years,
and endless reigns the Elder King
in Ilmarin on Mountain sheer;
and words unheard were spoken then
of folk of Men and Elven-kin,
beyond the world were visions showed
forbid to those that dwell therein.

A ship then new they built for him
of mithril and of elven-glass
with shining prow; no shaven oar
nor sail she bore on silver mast:
the Silmaril as lantern light
and banner bright with living flame
to gleam thereon by Elbereth
herself was set, who thither came
and wings immortal made for him,
and laid on him undying doom,
to sail the shoreless skies and come
behind the Sun and light of Moon.

From Evereven's lofty hills
where softly silver fountains fall
his wings him bore, a wandering light,
beyond the mighty Mountain Wall.
From World's End there he turned away,
and yearned again to find afar
his home through shadows journeying,
and burning as an island star
on high above the mists he came,
a distant flame before the Sun,
a wonder ere the waking dawn
where grey the Norland waters run.

And over Middle-earth he passed
and heard at last the weeping sore
of women and of elven-maids
in Elder Days, in years of yore.
But on him mighty doom was laid,
till Moon should fade, an orbéd star
to pass, and tarry never more
on Hither Shores where Mortals are;
for ever still a herald on
an errand that should never rest
to bear his shining lamp afar,
the Flammifer of Westernesse.

The Song of Nimrodel

(Sung by Legolas in Westron and much forgotten)

An Elven-maid there was of old,
A shining star by day:
Her mantle white was hemmed with gold,
Her shoes of silver-grey.

A star was bound upon her brows,
A light was on her hair
As sun upon the golden boughs
In Lórien the fair.

Her hair was long, her limbs were white,
And fair she was and free;
And in the wind she went as light
As leaf of linden-tree.

Beside the falls of Nimrodel,
By water clear and cool,
Her voice as falling silver fell
Into the shining pool.

Where now she wanders none can tell,
In sunlight or in shade;
For lost of yore was Nimrodel
And in the mountains strayed.

The elven-ship in haven grey
Beneath the mountain-lee
Awaited her for many a day
Beside the roaring sea.

A wind by night in Northern lands
Arose, and loud it cried,
And drove the ship from elven-strands
Across the streaming tide.

When dawn came dim the land was lost,
The mountains sinking grey
Beyond the heaving waves that tossed
Their plumes of blinding spray.

Amroth beheld the fading shore
Now low beyond the swell,
And cursed the faithless ship that bore
Him far from Nimrodel.

Of old he was an Elven-king,
A lord of tree and glen,
When golden were the boughs in spring
In fair Lothlórien.

From helm to sea they saw him leap,
As arrow from the string,
And dive into the water deep,
As mew upon the wing.

The wind was in his flowing hair,
The foam about him shone;
Afar they saw him strong and fair
Go riding like a swan.

But from the West has come no word,
And on the Hither Shore
No tidings Elven-folk have heard
Of Amroth evermore.

Galadriel's Song of Eldamar

(Sung by Galadriel to the Fellowship of the Ring)

I sang of leaves, of leaves of gold, and leaves of gold there grew:
Of wind I sang, a wind there came and in the branches blew.
Beyond the Sun, beyond the Moon, the foam was on the Sea,
And by the strand of Ilmarin there grew a golden Tree.
Beneath the stars of Ever-eve in Eldamar it shone,
In Eldamar beside the walls of Elven Tirion.
There long the golden leaves have grown upon the branching years,
While here beyond the Sundering Seas now fall the Elven-tears.
O Lórien! The Winter comes, the bare and leafless Day;
The leaves are falling in the stream, the river flows away.
O Lórien! Too long I have dwelt upon this Hither Shore
And in a fading crown have twined the golden elanor.
But if of ships I now should sing, what ship would come to me,
What ship would bear me ever back across so wide a Sea?

Songs of the Lord of the Rings in Western Lands

In Western Lands

(Sam's Song in Cirith Ungol)

song link

[amended R.E. Slater]

Still round the corner there may wait,

a new road or a secret gate,

and though we pass them by today,

tomorrow we may come this way....

In Western lands beneath the sun,

the flowers may rise in spring,

the trees may bud, the waters run,

the merry finches sing.

Or there may be 'tis cloudless night,

and swaying beeches burning,

Elven-stars as jewels white,

Amid their branching helms.

Though here at journey's end I lie,

in darkness buried deep,

Beyond all towers strong and high,

Beyond all mountains steep.

Above all shadows rides the Sun,

And Stars forever dwell,

I will not say the Day is done,

Nor bid the Stars farewell.

Actual Verse
*Or there maybe 'tis cloudless night
and swaying beeches bear
the Elven-stars as jewels white
amid their branching hair.

Stephen Oliver - Bilbo's Last Song

(from the BBC Radio Adaptation of the LOTRs)

Bilbo's Last Song

(At the Grey Havens)

Day is ended, dim my eyes,
but journey long before me lies.
Farewell, friends! I hear the call.
The ship's beside the stony wall.
Foam is white and waves are grey;
beyond the sunset leads my way.
Foam is salt, the wind is free;
I hear the rising of the Sea.

Farewell, friends! The sails are set,
the wind is east, the moorings fret.
Shadows long before me lie,
beneath the ever-bending sky,
but islands lie behind the Sun
that I shall raise ere all is done;
lands there are to west of West,
where night is quiet and sleep is rest.

Guided by the Lonely Star,
beyond the utmost harbour-bar
I'll find the havens fair and free,
and beaches of the Starlit Sea.
Ship, my ship! I seek the West,
and fields and mountains ever blest.
Farewell to Middle-Earth at last.

I see the Star above your mast!

* * * * * * *

Recommended Adds to the Video Lists

of Tolkien's Lores and Leis of Middle Earth

Indexes - History of Tolkien's Middle Earth

The Video Histories of Middle Earth

by "Tolkien Untangled"

(playlists count will continue to grow with new video additions)

NOW PLAYING (5)

How The Rings of Power Should Have Been Written (to make them Tolkienian)

View full playlist

NOW PLAYING (3)

Of the Battle for Beleriand

View full playlist

NOW PLAYING (8)

Tolkien Top Tens

View full playlist

NOW PLAYING (11)

Of Beren & Lúthien

View full playlist

NOW PLAYING (11)

Of the Lords of Beleriand

View full playlist

NOW PLAYING (31)

Lore Untangled

View full playlist

NOW PLAYING (9)

Lord of the Rings: What's the Difference?

View full playlist

NOW PLAYING (7)

Of Fëanor & the Silmarils

View full playlist

NOW PLAYING (4)

Of the Beginning of Days

View full playlist

Stories of Christmas

A Visit from St. Nicholas

Clement Clarke Moore (1779-1863)

'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 the 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 the lustre of mid-day to objects below,
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny reindeer,
With a little old driver, so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment it 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, Donder and Blitzen!
To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall!
Now dash away! dash away! dash away all!"
As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky;
So up to the house-top 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 of 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 bowlful 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."

 

O'er the Hill and O'er the Vale

For Epiphany

Author Anonymous

Translator: John Mason Neale

O'er the hill and o'er the vale,
    Come three kings together,
Caring nought for snow and hail,
    Cold and wind and weather;
Now on Persia's sandy plains,
Now where Tigris swells with rains,
    They their camels tether;
Now through Syrian lands they go,
Now through Moab, faint and slow,
    Now o'er Edom's heather.

O'er the hill and o'er the vale,
    Each king bears a present;
Wise men go a Child to hail,
    Monarchs seek a peasant:
And a star in front proceeds,
Over rocks and rivers leads,
    Shines with beams incessant:
Therefore onward, onward still!
Ford the stream and climb the hill:
    Love makes all things pleasant.

He is God ye go to meet:
    Therefore incense proffer:
He is King ye go to greet;
    Gold is in your coffer.
Also Man, He comes to share
Ev'ry woe that man can bear;
    Tempter, railer, scoffer:
Therefore now, against the day
In the grave when Him they lay,
    Myrrh ye also offer.

Christmas Bells

by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

I heard the bells on Christmas Day

Their old, familiar carols play,

And wild and sweet

The words repeat

Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

And thought how, as the day had come,

The belfries of all Christendom

Had rolled along

The unbroken song

Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

Till, ringing, singing on its way

The world revolved from night to day,

A voice, a chime,

A chant sublime

Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

Then from each black, accursed mouth

The cannon thundered in the South,

And with the sound

The Carols drowned

Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

And in despair I bowed my head;

‘There is no peace on earth,’ I said;

‘For hate is strong,

And mocks the song

Of peace on earth, good-will to men!’

Then pealed the bells more loud and deep:

‘God is not dead; nor doth he sleep!

The Wrong shall fail,

The Right prevail,

With peace on earth, good-will to men!’

Christmas Day

by R.E. Slater

We squealed and slid across the wandering creek bed's overflows, upon our little legs and shiny skates, desperately trying to stay upright, o'er frozen pools of gathered water held fast in windage ripples and protruding branches, navigating as we could the wooded stream's winding length swept bare the cold December winds one happy Christmas Day. 

Across the frozen fields we glimpse our dairy farm upon its rounded hills, and grandma's aged house nearby our own, who, as a little girl did skate as we this day, sliding upon our feet and bellies, laughing as we slid and fell - or muttering a few cross words in pain - while brothers, mom and dad darted about, grinning our wizened collie's splaying legs, like my own, seeking purchase upon stilled land and wind and water.

R.E. Slater

November 26, 2022

@copyright R.E. Slater Publications

all rights reserved

Merry Christmas

by Nicholas Gordon

Merry Christmas!

Isn't it fun

To say "Merry Christmas"

to everyone?

Time for a party

And presents and things

That make children happy

And give their hearts wings!

Silent Night

by Joseph Mohr 

Silent night, holy night
All is calm, all is bright
Round yon Virgin Mother and Child
Holy Infant so tender and mild
Sleep in heavenly peace
Sleep in heavenly peace

Silent night, holy night!
Shepherds quake at the sight
Glories stream from heaven afar
Heavenly hosts sing Alleluia!
Christ, the Saviour is born
Christ, the Saviour is born

Silent night, holy night
Son of God, love's pure light
Radiant beams from Thy holy face
With the dawn of redeeming grace
Jesus, Lord, at Thy birth
Jesus, Lord, at Thy birth "

Cradle Hymn or "Away in a Manger"

by Martin Luther

Away in a manger, no crib for a bed,
The little Lord Jesus laid down His sweet head.
The stars in the bright sky looked down where he lay—
the little Lord Jesus asleep on the hay.

The cattle are lowing, the baby awakes,
But little Lord Jesus, no crying He makes.
I love thee, Lord Jesus! look down from the sky,
And stay by my cradle till morning is nigh.

Christmas Long Ago

by Jo Geis

Frosty days and ice-stilled nights,

Fir trees trimmed with tiny lights.

Sound of sleigh bells in the snow,

That was Christmas long ago.

Tykes on sleds with shouts of glee,

Icy-window filigree.

Sugarplums and candle glow,

Part of Christmas long ago.

Footsteps stealthy on the stair,

Sweet-voiced carols in the air.

Stocking hanging in a row,

Tell of Christmas long ago.

Starry nights so still and blue,

Good friends calling out to you.

Life, so fact, will always show...

Dreams of Christmas on long ago.

Let Every Day Be Christmas

by Norman W. Brooks

Christmas is forever,

not for just one day,

for loving, sharing, giving,

are not to be put away,

like bells and lights and tinsel,

in some box upon a shelf,

no, the good you do for others

is the good you do yourself.

Mom is Making Christmas

by Vicky A. Luong

Cookies baking in the kitchen -

The smell floating through the air;

Mom is making Christmas

with her usual Merry flair!

The house is gaily decorated,

Each gift she stitched with love;

We'll gather around the Christmas tree

for an evening of old-fashioned fun.

This evening she'll sing carols for us

With her angel's voice and smile;

Yes, Mom is making Christmas -

A true reason to rejoice!

O Little Town of Bethlehem

O little town of Bethlehem, how still we see thee lie!

Above thy deep and dreamless sleep the silent stars go by.

Yet in thy dark streets shineth the everlasting Light;

The hopes and fears of all the years are met in thee tonight.

For Christ is born of Mary, and gathered all above,

While mortals sleep, the angels keep their watch of wondering love.

O morning stars together, proclaim the holy birth,

And praises sing to God the King, and peace to men on earth!

How silently, how silently, the wondrous Gift is giv’n;

So God imparts to human hearts the blessings of His Heav’n.

No ear may hear His coming, but in this world of sin,

Where meek souls will receive Him still, the dear Christ enters in.

Where children pure and happy pray to the blessèd Child,

Where misery cries out to Thee, Son of the mother mild;

Where charity stands watching and faith holds wide the door,

The dark night wakes, the glory breaks, and Christmas comes once more.

O holy Child of Bethlehem, descend to us, we pray;

Cast out our sin, and enter in, be born in us today.

We hear the Christmas angels the great glad tidings tell;

O come to us, abide with us, our Lord Emmanuel!

Love Came Down at Christmas

by Christina Rossetti

Love came down at Christmas, 

   Love all lovely, Love Divine; 

Love was born at Christmas, 

   Star and angels gave the sign. 

Worship we the Godhead, 

   Love Incarnate, Love Divine; 

Worship we our Jesus: 

   But wherewith for sacred sign? 

Love shall be our token, 

   Love be yours and love be mine, 

Love to God and all men, 

   Love for plea and gift and sign

A Song Was Heard At Christmas

by Timothy Dudley Smith

A Song was heard at Christmas

To wake the midnight sky;

A Savior's birth and peace on earth

And praise to God on high.

The angels sang at Christmas

with all the hosts above.

And still we sing the newborn King

His glory and his love.

Let us end these "Stories of Christmas" with prayer and purpose for the war torn people of the Ukraine harmed and broken by the terrorism of a solitary Russian leader who defies his people and those nations around him with defilement across all he deigns.

Like the abolitionist minister of old, Thomas Hill, we prayer and act on behalf of the Ukrainian people who now suffer winter's brutal cold, starvation, no medicines, and loss of family and friends. We now pray and purpose a Second Advent upon the evils of this world which refuse to love and share humanity's feep need for living altars and remembered sepulchre's as reminders that we each share the other's burdens.

R.E. Slater

November 26, 2022

THE SECOND ADVENT

by Thomas Hill

Not in a humble manger now,
Not of a lowly virgin born,
Announced to simple shepherd swains,
That watch their flocks in early morn ;

Nor in the pomp of glory, come,
While throngs of angels hover round,
Arrayed in glittering robes of light,
And moving to the trumpet’s sound ;

But in the heart of every man,
O, Jesus, come, and reign therein,
And banish from the human breast
The darkening clouds of guilt and sin.

Come, spread thy glory over earth,
Fill every heart with truth and love,
Till thy whole kingdom here below
Be filled with peace like that above.

For such a glory, when on earth,
Thou prayedst to thy Father, God ;
He heareth thee, and soon will spread
Thy glory and thy truth abroad.

Then shall no more by brothers’ hands
The blood of brother men be spilled,
Nor earth’s fair scenes with captives’ tears
And groans of dying slaves be filled.

Postscript:

“Few if any persons in the community had so great cause for sorrow as the Abolitionists. One of the towers of our strength had fallen. The greatness of our loss was dwelt upon at the annual meeting of the Massachusetts Society a few days afterward, and it was unanimously voted :

‘That an address on the life and character of Charles Follen, and in particular upon his early and eminent services to the cause of abolition, be delivered by such person and at such time and place as the Board of Managers shall appoint.’

“Their appointment fell upon me, and I was requested to give notice so soon as my eulogy should be written. I gave such a notice early in February, when I was informed by the managers that they had not yet been able to procure a suitable place, for such a service as they wished to have in connection with my discourse. They had applied for the use of every one of the Unitarian and for several of the Orthodox churches in Boston, and all had been refused them. It was said that Dr. Channing did obtain from the trustees of Federal Street Church consent that the eulogy on Dr. Follen, whom he esteemed so highly, might be pronounced from his pulpit. But another meeting of the trustees, or of the proprietors, was called, and that permission was revoked. More sad still the meeting-house at East Lexington, which had been built under his direction, which he was coming from New York to dedicate, and in which he was to have preached as the pastor of the church if his life had been spared, — even that meeting-house was refused for a eulogy and other appropriate exercises in commemoration of the early and eminent services of Dr. Follen to the cause of freedom and humanity in Europe, and more especially in our country. Such was the temper of that time, such the opposition of the people in and about the metropolis of New England to Mr. Garrison and his associates. …”

Eliza Lee Follet published her husband’s memoirs after his death, wrote and edited children’s publications and continued to support anti-slavery causes. She died at age 72 at her home in Brookline, MA. on January 26, 1860 before the Civil War began.

Thomas Hill earned his Bachelor of Arts degree from Harvard the same year that he wrote this poetry pamphlet which ended with the Christmas poem above. In 1845, Thomas Hill earned a Doctor of Divinity degree. He was installed as pastor at the Unitarian Church in Waltham, MA., and 14 years later, took the position of President of Antioch College, Ohio, as well as pastor of the Church of the Redeemer in Cincinnati.

Dr. Hill was chosen to be President of Harvard in 1862, a position he held throughout the Civil War. He had occasion that same year to write to President Lincoln to advise that his son, Robert, whom Dr. Hill referred to as “Lincoln, Junior,” would be publicly admonished for smoking in Harvard Square.

Hill resigned from Harvard in 1868 for health reasons and spent his remaining years as pastor of the First Unitarian Church in Portland, ME.

Additional Resources

Dr. Thomas Hill: The Unitarian, Vol. 6 (1891)

Loss of Steamer Lexington: Power for Sanity: Selected Editorials of William Cullen Bryant, 1821-1861, by William Cullen Bryant, Fordham Univ. Press (1994):

At his death in 1878 William Cullen Bryant had been, for fifty-one years, the chief editor and a principal owner of the New York Evening Post. The paper had been started in 1801 by lawyer William Coleman in association with the Federalist political Alexander Hamilton. In 1826, Coleman hired Bryant as a reporter. Although Coleman may have engaged his services because of his growing distinction as a poet, Bryant was also by then an experienced writer of prose, having published more than fifty critical and familiar essays. He had been both editor of and most frequent writer for the monthly New York Review and the United State Review, and was known widely for his lectures on poetry before the New York Athenaeum. By the time he assumed the direction of the Evening Post after Coleman's death in 1829 he had proved himself, in three annual volumes of the holiday gift book The Talisman, to be proficient in a wit and irony soon reflected in his editorials.

Bryant brought the conservative journal to the support of the Democratic Party of President Andrew Jackson, and held it thereafter to liberal principles, advocating free trade, free labor, and Free Soil. Except for the years from 1829 to 1836, Bryant held the editorial pen largely alone until after the Civil War. Occasional contributors formed a representative roster of leaders in many fields: Charles Francis Adams, Thomas Hart Benton, Francis P. Blair, Salman P. Chase, Thomas Cole, James Fenimore Cooper, Hamilton Fish, Parke Godwin (Bryant's son-in-law), Bret Harte, James K. Paulding, John Randolph, Samule J. Tilden, Martin and John Van Buren, Artemus Ward, Gideon Wlles, Walt Whitman, and Silas Wright. And now and then there were articles by British Parliamentarian Richard Cobden and artist-economist George Harvey, and the French critic Charles Sainte-Beuve.

Bryant's editorials after 1860 suggest separate treatment. The present volume traces the growth of his political and social maturity as he made of a conservative, parochial, small-city newspaper into a national organ which Charles Francis Adams in 1850 called the best daily journal in the United States.