Christmas Eve 

Straight thro’ a fold of purple mist
   The sun goes down—a crimson wheel—
And like an opal burns the sea
   That once was cold as steel.

With pomp of purple, gold and red,
   Thou wilt come back at morrow’s dawn…
But thou can’st never bring, O Sun,
   The Christmas that is gone!
Credit

This poem was published in When the Birds Go North Again (The Macmillan Company, 1898). It is in the public domain.