Page:Bohemian legends and other poems.djvu/88



In the holy Christmas season
 * Shines the moonlight bright and clear,

In the graveyard, on the crosses,
 * In the warden’s window near;

And the moonlight roused his slumber—
 * From his bed he rose in haste,

Thinking it must be now morning
 * And he had no time to waste.

Bright the snow is lying round him,
 * As he goes to ring the bell.

When he hears the church clock striking
 * Twelve o’clock, he counts it well.

Home again he would have turned him,
 * Lain him down in peace again,

When by chance he sees the window,
 * Where light streams from out the pane.

Lost in wonder he went onward
 * To the church, and entered in.

Candles by the altar burning
 * Light the church’s outline dim.

There he sees upon the benches,
 * Men and women scattered round,

People that he knows are kneeling,
 * Praying there without a sound.

Then he spoke, and said “Good-morning,”
 * First to this one, then to that.

Not an answer did they give him,
 * No one noticed where he sat