“当他来的时候，我的圣诞快乐，我们的小男孩在草皮下;圣诞的火焰更亮了，圣诞的游戏也更欢快了，因为屋子里放着一个小得像仙女的东西——上帝的圣诞礼物!冬青把它的红宝石球挂在墙上，槲寄生上挂着珍珠;圣诞树上奇异的果实唤醒了快乐的男孩和女孩们如长笛唱诗班般的笑声。因为，在那昏暗的、安静的房间里，母亲的痛苦，母亲的爱，刚刚被忘却，这一念头，使那原本像一群任性任性的孩子那样尖厉的欢声笑语，变得柔和了。玩笑、故事、祝酒、欢声笑语，都是一种严肃的语气;我们谈到楼上的婴儿，我们为他单独举行了节日。当圣诞的钟声在清晨响起的时候，说它们响起是因为婴儿出生，这似乎并不是一种罪过，而不是为了这个神圣的日子。啊!基督啊，宽恕我们的罪恶吧，这罪恶淹没了我们对时代的记忆，使我们沉浸在尘世的幸福之中! We owned the error when the mirth Of another Christmas lit the hearth Of every home but this. When, in that lonely burial-ground, With every Christmas sight and sound Removed or shunned, we kept A mournful Christmas by the mound Where little Willie slept! Ah, hapless mother! darling wife! I might say nothing more, And the dull cold world would hold The story of that precious life As amply told! Shall we, shall you and I, before That world's unsympathetic eyes Lay other relics from our store Of tender memories? What could it know of the joy and love That throbbed and smiled and wept above An unresponsive thing? And who could share the ecstatic thrill With which we watched the upturned bill Of our bird at its living spring? Shall we tell how in the time gone by, Beneath all changes of the sky, And in an ordinary home Amid the city's din, Life was to us a crystal dome, Our babe the flame therein? Ah! this were jargon on the mart; And though some gentle friend, And many and many a suffering heart, Would weep and comprehend, Yet even these might fail to see What we saw daily in the child -- Not the mere creature undefiled, But the winged cherub soon to be. That wandering hand which seemed to reach At angel finger-tips, And that murmur like a mystic speech Upon the rosy lips, That something in the serious face Holier than even its infant grace, And that rapt gaze on empty space, Which made us, half believing, say, "Ah, little wide-eyed seer! who knows But that for you this chamber glows With stately shapes and solemn shows?" Which touched us, too, with vague alarms, Lest in the circle of our arms We held a being less akin To his parents in a world of sin Than to beings not of clay: How could we speak in human phrase, Of such scarce earthly traits and ways, What would not seem A doting dream, In the creed of these sordid days? No! let us keep Deep, deep, In sorrowing heart and aching brain, This story hidden with the pain, Which since that blue October night When Willie vanished from our sight, Must haunt us even in our sleep. In the gloom of the chamber where he died, And by that grave which, through our care, From Yule to Yule of every year, Is made like Spring to bloom; And where, at times, we catch the sigh As of an angel floating nigh, Who longs but has not power to tell That in that violet-shrouded cell Lies nothing better than the shell Which he had cast aside -- By that sweet grave, in that dark room, We may weave at will for each other's ear, Of that life, and that love, and that early doom, The tale which is shadowed here: To us alone it will always be As fresh as our own misery; But enough, alas! for the world is said, In the brief "Here lieth" of the dead!