by Elizabeth

An Advent poem.

The night is coming early
Upon our hushed old house.
We light a fire in the grate,
We feed a straying mouse.
Our hands have stopped their sewing,
Our mouths have bit their bread.
Our rooms are waiting quietly,
The children tucked in bed.

We scarcely dare to whisper
Above the crackling flames.
We dread to break the silence
With little talking-games.
Part the curtains by the door—
The night as dark as lead!
A star is burning quietly,
The children dream in bed.