Hark!  The wind among the cedars
Waves their white arms to and fro;
I remember how I watched them
Sixty Christmas Days ago: 
Then I dreamt a glorious vision
Of great deeds to crown each year—­
Sixty Christmas Days have found me
Useless, helpless, blind—­and here!

Yes, I feel my darling stealing
Warm soft fingers into mine—­
Shall I tell her what I fancied
In that strange old dream of mine? 
I was kneeling by the window,
Reading how a noble band,
With the red cross on their breast-plates,
Went to gain the Holy Land.

While with eager eyes of wonder
Over the dark page I bent,
Slowly twilight shadows gathered
Till the letters came and went;
Slowly, till the night was round me;
Then my heart beat loud and fast,
For I felt before I saw it
That a spirit near me passed.

Then I raised my eyes, and shining
Where the moon’s first ray was bright
Stood a winged Angel-warrior
Clothed and panoplied in light: 
So, with Heaven’s love upon him,
Stern in calm and resolute will,
Looked St. Michael—­does the picture
Hang in the old cloister still?

Threefold were the dreams of honour
That absorbed my heart and brain;
Threefold crowns the Angel promised,
Each one to be bought by pain: 
While he spoke, a threefold blessing
Fell upon my soul like rain. 
Helper of the poor and suffering;
Victor in A glorious strife;
Singer of A noble poem: 
Such the honours of my life.

Ah, that dream!  Long years that gave me
Joy and grief as real things
Never touched the tender memory
Sweet and solemn that it brings—­
Never quite effaced the feeling
Of those white and shadowing wings.

Do those blue eyes open wider? 
Does my faith too foolish seem? 
Yes, my darling, years have taught me
It was nothing but a dream. 
Soon, too soon, the bitter knowledge
Of a fearful trial rose,
Rose to crush my heart, and sternly
Bade my young ambition close.

More and more my eyes were clouded,
Till at last God’s glorious light
Passed away from me for ever,
And I lived and live in night. 
Dear, I will not dim your pleasure,
Christmas should be only gay—­
In my night the stars have risen,
And I wait the dawn of day.

Spite of all I could be happy;
For my brothers’ tender care
In their boyish pastimes ever
Made me take, or feel a share. 
Philip, even then so thoughtful,
Max so noble, brave and tall,
And your father, little Godfrey,
The most loving of them all.

Philip reasoned down my sorrow,
Max would laugh my gloom away,
Godfrey’s little arms put round me,
Helped me through my dreariest day;
While the promise of my Angel,
Like a star, now bright, now pale,
Hung in blackest night above me,
And I felt it could not fail.