The time draws near the birth of Christ; The moon is hid, the night is still; A single church below the hill Is pealing, folded in the mist.
A single peal of bells below, That wakens at this hour of rest A single murmur in the breast, That these are not the bells I know.
Like strangers’ voices here they sound, In lands where not a memory strays, Nor landmark breathes of other days, But all is new unhallow’d ground.