Saboly
SeventeenthCentury—
Saboly is dead,Is dead in Avignon!He made the organ singAs it had been a choirOf angels of the LordCleaving and brighteningThe roof of dark St. Pierre!The sound was of great glory,It trembled all aroundAnd quivered through our hearts.Saboly is dead,The maker ofnoëlsThat all the people loved,Saboly is dead—And Yule is here again;The great log on the hearth,The crèche with all its lights,The children gathering there;The Kings are on the road—The twilight road that leadsFrom out the purple EastThe road from St. Remys!...How shall we sing his songsWho sang so well of these!Folk say, when death was nearHe set his hand to writeFor us a newnoël.(So many a one beforeHe wrote with pen of gold!)When he to Heaven cameI wis was silence then.While Mary Mother bentAnd raised him to his place,The sweetness on his lipsOf that last, bestnoël!But we—how can we singThe songs he made for us,Though Yule is here again!For Saboly is dead,Is dead in Avignon.
Saboly is dead,Is dead in Avignon!He made the organ singAs it had been a choirOf angels of the LordCleaving and brighteningThe roof of dark St. Pierre!The sound was of great glory,It trembled all aroundAnd quivered through our hearts.Saboly is dead,The maker ofnoëlsThat all the people loved,Saboly is dead—And Yule is here again;The great log on the hearth,The crèche with all its lights,The children gathering there;The Kings are on the road—The twilight road that leadsFrom out the purple EastThe road from St. Remys!...How shall we sing his songsWho sang so well of these!Folk say, when death was nearHe set his hand to writeFor us a newnoël.(So many a one beforeHe wrote with pen of gold!)When he to Heaven cameI wis was silence then.While Mary Mother bentAnd raised him to his place,The sweetness on his lipsOf that last, bestnoël!But we—how can we singThe songs he made for us,Though Yule is here again!For Saboly is dead,Is dead in Avignon.
Saboly is dead,Is dead in Avignon!He made the organ singAs it had been a choirOf angels of the LordCleaving and brighteningThe roof of dark St. Pierre!The sound was of great glory,It trembled all aroundAnd quivered through our hearts.
Saboly is dead,
Is dead in Avignon!
He made the organ sing
As it had been a choir
Of angels of the Lord
Cleaving and brightening
The roof of dark St. Pierre!
The sound was of great glory,
It trembled all around
And quivered through our hearts.
Saboly is dead,The maker ofnoëlsThat all the people loved,Saboly is dead—And Yule is here again;The great log on the hearth,The crèche with all its lights,The children gathering there;The Kings are on the road—The twilight road that leadsFrom out the purple EastThe road from St. Remys!...How shall we sing his songsWho sang so well of these!Folk say, when death was nearHe set his hand to writeFor us a newnoël.(So many a one beforeHe wrote with pen of gold!)When he to Heaven cameI wis was silence then.While Mary Mother bentAnd raised him to his place,The sweetness on his lipsOf that last, bestnoël!
Saboly is dead,
The maker ofnoëls
That all the people loved,
Saboly is dead—
And Yule is here again;
The great log on the hearth,
The crèche with all its lights,
The children gathering there;
The Kings are on the road—
The twilight road that leads
From out the purple East
The road from St. Remys!...
How shall we sing his songs
Who sang so well of these!
Folk say, when death was near
He set his hand to write
For us a newnoël.
(So many a one before
He wrote with pen of gold!)
When he to Heaven came
I wis was silence then.
While Mary Mother bent
And raised him to his place,
The sweetness on his lips
Of that last, bestnoël!
But we—how can we singThe songs he made for us,Though Yule is here again!For Saboly is dead,Is dead in Avignon.
But we—how can we sing
The songs he made for us,
Though Yule is here again!
For Saboly is dead,
Is dead in Avignon.
Edith M. Thomas
Edith M. Thomas
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