The throng go crowned with blue.
Brief, on a flying night,
From the shaken tower,
A flock of bells take flight,
And go with the hour.
Like birds from the cote to the gales,
A fleet of bells set sails,
And go to the dark.
Sudden the cold airs swing.
A verse of bells takes wing
And flies with the cloud.
UNTO US A SON IS GIVEN
Given, not lent,
And not withdrawn--once sent--
This Infant of mankind, this One,
Is still the little welcome Son.
New every year,
New-born and newly dear,
He comes with tidings and a song,
The ages long, the ages long.
Even as the cold
Keen winter grows not old;
As childhood is so fresh, foreseen,
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