To-night ungather'd let us leave 
This laurel, let this holly stand: 
We live within the stranger's land, 
And strangely falls our Christmas eve. 

Our father's dust is left alone 
And silent under other snows: 
There in due time the woodbine blows, 
The violet comes, but we are gone. 

No more shall wayward grief abuse 
The genial hour with mask and mime; 
For change of place, like growth of time, 
Has broke the bond of dying use. 

Let cares that petty shadows cast, 
By which our lives are chiefly proved, 
A little spare the night I loved, 
And hold it solemn to the past. 

But let no footstep beat the floor, 
Nor bowl of wassail mantle warm; 
For who would keep an ancient form 
Thro' which the spirit breathes no more? 

Be neither song, nor game, nor feast; 
Nor harp be touch'd, nor flute be blown; 
No dance, no motion, save alone 
What lightens in the lucid east 

Of rising worlds by yonder wood. 
Long sleeps the summer in the seed; 
Run out your measure arcs, and lead 
The closing cycle rich in good.