At the end of the twelfth day,
it wells up. How many more?
How many more Christmases
to wonder and carol, to wander?
To ponder keenly in this regard,
we think peculiar to late years.
Yet truly it shadows one and all,
whether many or few remain,
Christmases, that is, since his cry,
for shepherds far at night in fields,
for mother pierced to the morrow,
for young and old alike, for me.
