English poem
To The Hammersmith Choir
by Walter Crane (1863–1929)
SWEET voices broke my sleep on Christmas morn; Clear through the moonlit air their anthem rung, Of human hope and fellowship that sung, A mass for souls not dead but yet new born, A herald blast on Freedom’s silver horn, At dayspring on the brooding darkness flung, With tidings of new joy in tuneful tongue, The marching song of workers travel-worn.
As one in dreams I heard, and wondering rose; E’en as the shepherds’ marvelling of old To hear the angels quiring, and my blood Quickened to catch at last their stirring close, And so my heart took hope and courage good In thought of days to be in time untold.
Xmas, 1888.