159. Candlemas
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| {279} (A Song.) |
THE Angel-lights of Christmas morn, |
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Which shot across the sky, |
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Away they pass at Candlemas, |
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They sparkle and they die. |
Comfort of earth is brief at best, |
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Although it be divine; |
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Like funeral lights for Christmas gone, |
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Old Simeon's tapers shine. |
And then for eight long weeks and more, |
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We wait in twilight grey, |
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Till the high candle sheds a beam |
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On Holy Saturday. |
We wait along the penance-tide |
| Of solemn fast and prayer; |
| While song is hush'd, and lights grow dim |
| In the sin-laden air. {280} |
And while the sword in Mary's soul |
| Is driven home, we hide |
| In our own hearts, and count the wounds |
| Of passion and of pride. |
And still, though Candlemas be spent |
| And Alleluias o'er, |
| Mary is music in our need, |
| And Jesus light in store. |
The Oratory.
1849. |