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As befits the time of year, we will be reading six poems of Advent and Christmas during this season of the Well-Read Poem, which is a re-airing of episodes from Season 14. We have selected certain familiar ones, which may yet contain certain surprises in their authorship and composition history, as well as some less well-known pieces which we hope will help you better enjoy the late days of the year leading up to the great Feast of the Nativity of Christ the Lord.
Today's poem is "Noël" by Théophile Gautier in translation by Agnes Lee. Reading begins at timestamps 5:15 and 7:00.
Noël (Christmas)
by Théophile Gautier, trans. by Agnes Lee
Black is the sky and white the ground. O ring, ye bells, your carol's grace! The Child is born! A love profound Beams o'er Him from His Mother's face.
No silken woof of costly show Keeps off the bitter cold from Him. But spider-webs have drooped them low, To be His curtain soft and dim.
Now trembles on the straw downspread The Little Child, the Star beneath. To warm Him in His holy bed, Upon Him ox and ass do breathe.
Snow hangs its fringes on the byre. The roof stands open to the tryst Of aureoled saints, that sweetly choir To shepherds, "Come, behold the Christ!"
By Thomas Banks4.9
247247 ratings
As befits the time of year, we will be reading six poems of Advent and Christmas during this season of the Well-Read Poem, which is a re-airing of episodes from Season 14. We have selected certain familiar ones, which may yet contain certain surprises in their authorship and composition history, as well as some less well-known pieces which we hope will help you better enjoy the late days of the year leading up to the great Feast of the Nativity of Christ the Lord.
Today's poem is "Noël" by Théophile Gautier in translation by Agnes Lee. Reading begins at timestamps 5:15 and 7:00.
Noël (Christmas)
by Théophile Gautier, trans. by Agnes Lee
Black is the sky and white the ground. O ring, ye bells, your carol's grace! The Child is born! A love profound Beams o'er Him from His Mother's face.
No silken woof of costly show Keeps off the bitter cold from Him. But spider-webs have drooped them low, To be His curtain soft and dim.
Now trembles on the straw downspread The Little Child, the Star beneath. To warm Him in His holy bed, Upon Him ox and ass do breathe.
Snow hangs its fringes on the byre. The roof stands open to the tryst Of aureoled saints, that sweetly choir To shepherds, "Come, behold the Christ!"

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