Midnight Mass Poem by Roy Ballard

Soft airs there were among the Devon hills,
soft redstone and the softest ring of bells.
The pagan robin bosun-piped his trills
from ancient rafters where the deathwatch dwells,
his finger-feathers fluttering on the beams
above the candled crib and carolled choir.
Ah! Those who sang sing only now in dreams
though never could a living dream aspire
to such a benediction in the night.
Beloved tunes and voices fade away
while robin carols in the candlelight,
lamenting for his lost midsummer day
and we for joys we barely recognise,
soon snatched away from unaccustomed eyes.