Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Writ in the climate of heaven, in the language spoken by angels.

Writ in the climate of heaven, in the language spoken by angels.

And fast through the midnight dark and drear,
Through the whistling sleet and snow,
Like a sheeted read more

And fast through the midnight dark and drear,
Through the whistling sleet and snow,
Like a sheeted ghost, the vessel swept
Towards the reef of Norman's Woe.

A region of repose it seems,
A place of slumber and of dreams.

A region of repose it seems,
A place of slumber and of dreams.

Shepherds at the grange,
Where the Babe was born,
Sang with many a change,
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Shepherds at the grange,
Where the Babe was born,
Sang with many a change,
Christmas carols until morn.

Good-night! good-night! as we so oft have said
Beneath this roof at midnight, in the days
That read more

Good-night! good-night! as we so oft have said
Beneath this roof at midnight, in the days
That are no more, and shall no more return.
Thou hast but taken up thy lamp and gone to bed;
I stay a little longer, as one stays
To cover up the embers that still burn.