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 In the Bleak Midwinter Christmas and St. Stephen’s Day Angels and archangels may have gathered there . . . —Christina Rossetti to my daughter, Anna, at eleven, to read years hence when the times of faithful doubting come Staying up late to play Once more on Christmas Eve The role of Santa Claus For one who would believe (Though doubt now gives her pause) In reindeer and the sleigh, The toyshop gifts, the bells, St. Nick in white and red, The elves, the ho-ho-ho’s All dreamed while snug in bed, Tucked in for years by those Strong hands where safety dwells, I know the glittering veil Of fairy tale and myth As literal and living Must be stripped to its pith: Spirit of Christmas giving, Love’s light that ought not fail. But then when midnight nears, My job as Santa done, I gaze up at the crèche, The Mother and the Son, Where myth and history mesh Or so it now appears. Yet what if this tableau Of God’s redeeming love— The Wise Men and the beasts, The great Star poised above  The shepherds’ hillside feasts With angels in the snow— Were nothing but a dream, The deep heart’s deepest cry, Fulfilling fantasy That though we all must die We never cease to be As soul and mind would deem. So might this story told Of such a human gift— Bright fictive mystery!— Still leave us set adrift In St. Nick’s history, This bleak midwinter cold. ...

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