The days are sad, it is the Holytide:
  When flowers have ceased to blow, and birds to sing,
Where shall the weary heart of Man abide,
  Save in the jocund memories of the Spring?
As the gray twilight creeps across the snow,
  Let us discourse of walks when leaves are green;
Methinks the roses are more sweet that blow
  In Memory's shade, than any that are seen.

The days are sad, it is the Holytide:
  Drear clouds have hid the crimson of the West,
And, like the winged Day, Delight hath died
  Within me. and proud Passions gone to rest.
In this dusk hour, before the lamps are lit,
  Thro' the Heart's long long gallery I will go,
And mark pale Memory's taper fall on it
  Starting strange hues, like firelight on the snow.

The days are sad, it is the Holytide:
  Ye, whom I may not see for evermore,
Oh! I will dream, tho' Death's great waste is wide,
  That ye may hear me from your silent shore.
And ye who wander, and are far apart,
  (Oh! this great World is bleak, and years are growing,)
I have a sunny corner in my heart
  Where I do set ye when rough winds are blowing.

The days are sad, it is the Holytide:
  There is a welcome in the porch -- I hear
The voice of one that I have loved and tried,
  A voice I have not heard this many a year.
Ah! me, that face is as the wither'd flowers,
  Paler with pain, with sorrows more forlorn,
But still the smile, the soul of other hours,
  Shines from that face, the Even like the Morn.

The days are sad, it is the Holytide:
  We speak together while the daylight dies;
I see not he is old, for to my side
  The ghost of Youth comes up between our sighs;
The charm is broken by a single word -- 
  He answers -- ‘thou wilt hear no more on Earth
The faithful voice that we so oft have heard,
  Or see that face that was the Sun of Mirth.’

The days are sad, it is the Holytide:
  Now let the last words of departed friends
Be sweeter to thee than a singing bride,
  Weigh hearts, and for oblivion make amends;
Spurn not the penitent with haggard eye,
  Seat thou the hungry outcast by thy chair,
The son whose Spring hath fled in tempest by,
  The weeping daughter with dishevell'd hair.

The days are sad, it is the Holytide:
  Let Wealth, and Glory, as they take their fill,
Think how Mischance to Fortune is allied,
  Let Hope look up again thro' cloud of ill;
Let us look down into our children's eyes,
  And think amid the mirth, and festal flow,
How once we were as they are -- think with sighs
  Of them that were as we are, long ago.

The days are sad, it is the Holytide:
  Cleanse off the ills of Time, the hates of years,
Hush forked Scorn, and vail the crest of Pride,
  Kiss humble Love, and wipe away his tears;
Let vain things be forgot for evermore,
  Let good things rise from out these mournful days,
Bring out forsaken memories from thy store,
  If there be any pity, any praise.

The days are sad, it is the Holytide:
  Ah! let the Grief, that knocks against thy gate,
Sit by thy heart, and murmur at thy side,
  Think of Truth, think of Mercy, think of Fate;
Think what kind dews have fallen on thy head,
  What thou shouldst do, but what thou hast not done;
Cast out the flaunting Sirens that have led
  Thy heart, and once for all, and everyone.

The days are sad, it is the Holytide:
  Hark! in the drifting tempest, and the roar
Of darkling waters, are the Powers that guide
  The wreck of Nature to a Summer shore;
Let Man too in the darkness arm, and strive
  With the dark host within him, rise and fight,
And, ere the morrow morn, begin to live,
  Sorrow brings strength, as Day is born of Night.

The days are sad, it is the Holytide:
  The Sun is on the hearth, the World at home;
Over the frozen heath the Whirlwinds ride;
  Drink to the Past, and better days to come;
Wreathe we our goblets with the evergreen,
  Fadeless as Truth, sad as Humanity;
Let no bright flower, nor wither'd leaf be seen;
  These Hours are sisters to Adversity.

The days are sad, it is the Holytide:
  The Wintermorn is short, the Night is long;
So let the lifeless Hours be glorified
  With deathless thoughts, and echoed in sweet song:
And thro' the sunset of this purple cup
  They will resume the roses of their prime,
And the old Dead will hear us, and wake up,
  Pass with dim smiles, and make our hearts sublime!

The days are sad, it is the Holytide:
  Be dusky misletoes, and hollies strown,
Sharp as the spear that pierced his sacred side,
  Red as the drops upon his thorny crown;
No haggard Passion, and no lawless Mirth
  Fright off the sombre Muse -- tell sweet old tales,
Sing songs, as we sit bending o'er the hearth,
  Till the lamp flickers, and the memory fails.

The days are sad, it is the Holytide:
  But ere we part this blessed night, to dreams
Of Angel songs on the hush'd mountainside,
  And wondrous Shapes that came upon the light,
Let us lift up our voices all together
  In one deep harmony, a rapt farewell,
So sweet we shall not hear the stormy weather,
  And dying Sorrow wake to hear it swell.