He seems so near and yet so far.
Be near me when my light is low,/ When the blood creeps, and the nerves prick/ And tingle; and the heart is sick,/ And all the wheels of Being slow.
Do we indeed desire the dead/ Should still be near us at our side?/ Is there no baseness we would hide?/ No inner vileness that we dread?
The time draws near the birth of Christ: The moon is hid; the night is still; The Christmas bells from hill to hill Answer each other in the mist