by Thomas Hardy
Christmas Eve, and twelve of the clock.<br>“Now they are all on their knees,”<br>An elder said as we sat in a flock<br>By the embers in hearthside ease.
We pictured the meek mild creatures where<br>They dwelt in their strawy pen,<br>Nor did it occur to one of us there<br>To doubt they were kneeling then.
So fair a fancy few would weave<br>In these years! Yet, I feel,<br>If someone said on Christmas Eve,<br>“Come; see the oxen kneel,
“In the lonely barton by yonder coomb<br>Our childhood used to know,”<br>I should go with him in the gloom,<br>Hoping it might be so.