Here are no merry bells achime,
No midnight carols heard;
Only the windmill's clanking rhyme,
The slow creek's whispered word;
The cricket songs of summer time,
The calling of a bird.
Yet one may think on Bethlehem,
Nor deem it very far,
Where little fields the farmstead hem
And flocks all drowsy are;
Where in the green west like a gem
Hangs one grave, lovely star.
The sleeping range and valley wear
So soft an air and mild,
Somewhere up in the sky I heal
A black swan's bugle wild.
And, past the lighted window square,
The laughter of a child.
And Love comes in that little gate
And all his gifts receive,
Where heavenly peace and quiet wait
Day's burden to relieve --
We need no bells to celebrate
Our own sweet Christmas Eve.
First published in The Sydney Morning Herald, 24 December 1938
