Christmas Poems From India

"Here is a cute and warm collection of Christmas Poems for those a getting a little sentimental on the joyous occasion!" Merry Christmas, Baby By: Patrick U. Sunday The weather outside is cold We'll sit by the fireplace We'll cuddle and be cozy and stare at each other's face. Wait till we hear Christmas bells and the night is filled with peace Give each other a Christmas kiss And we'll fill our peace increase. It's a time of joy and love in our hearts to be filled On this very special night our love will be sealed. Merry Christmas and Happy New Year Ahead, Baby ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Thanks Patrick. It leaves me all shivery. I must be running a temp. This next poem is genuine literature, the real full-meal-deal. Read it closely. Learn something... Christmas in India DIM dawn behind the tamerisks-the sky is saffron-yellow- As the women in the village grind the corn, And the parrots seek the riverside, each calling to his fellow That the Day, the staring Easter Day, is born. Oh the white dust on the highway! Oh the stenches in the byway! Oh the clammy fog that hovers over earth! And at Home they're making merry 'neath the white and scarlet berry- What part have India's exiles in their mirth? Full day begind the tamarisks-the sky is blue and staring- As the cattle crawl afield beneath the yoke, And they bear One o'er the field-path, who is past all hope or caring, To the ghat below the curling wreaths of smoke. Call on Rama, going slowly, as ye bear a brother lowly- Call on Rama-he may hear, perhaps, your voice! With our hymn-books and our psalters we appeal to other altars, And to-day we bid "good Christian men rejoice!" High noon behind the tamarisks-the sun is hot above us- As at Home the Christmas Day is breaking wan. They will drink our healths at dinner-those who tell us how they love us, And forget us till another year be gone! Oh the toil that knows no breaking! Oh the Heimweh, ceaseless, aching! Oh the black dividing Sea and alien Plain! Youth was cheap-wherefore we sold it. Gold was good-we hoped to hold it, And to-day we know the fulness of our gain. Grey dusk behind the tamarisks-the parrots fly together- As the sun is sinking slowly over Home; And his last ray seems to mock us shackled in a lifelong tether. That drags us back how'er so far we roam. Hard her service, poor her payment-she in ancient, tattered raiment- India, she the grim Stepmother of our kind. If a year of life be lent her, if her temple's shrine we enter, The door is shut-we may not look behind. Black night behind the tamarisks-the owls begin their chorus - As the conches from the temple scream and bray. With the fruitless years behind us, and the hopeless years before us, Let us honour, O my brother, Christmas Day! Call a truce, then, to our labors-let us feast with friends and neighbors, And be merry as the custom of our caste; For if "faint and forced the laughter," and if sadness follow after, We are richer by one mocking Christmas past. by Rudyard Kipling Kipling was one of the most popular writers in English, in both prose and verse, in the late 19th and early 20th centuries. Thought provoking! Bah humbug, Rudyard. And you wrote fairy tales! Kipling was among the greatest of writers! Remember the joys of The Jungle Book? If you don't know about him please Google Rudyard Kipling and get yourself a proper, nicely starched British education... just for the great pleasure of it. Have a happy and holy Christmas