The Angel-lights of Christmas morn, + 

Which shot across the sky, + 

Away they pass at Candlemas, + 

They sparkle and they die. + 

Comfort of earth is brief at best, + 

Although it be divine; + 

Like funeral lights for Christmas gone, + 

Old Simeon’s tapers shine. + 

And then for eight long weeks and more, + 

We wait in twilight grey, + 

Till the high candle sheds a beam + 

On Holy Saturday. + 

We wait along the penance-tide + 

Of solemn fast and prayer; + 

While song is hush’d, and lights grow dim + 

In the sin-laden air. + 

And while the sword in Mary’s soul + 

Is driven home, we hide + 

In our own hearts, and count the wounds + 

Of passion and of pride. + 

And still, though Candlemas be spent + 

And Alleluias o’er, + 

Mary is music in our need, + 

And Jesus light in store. + 