(Christmas, 1914)

War gods have descended:
The world burns up in fine!
Warm your hands at the trench's fire,
Dear lad o' mine.

Bullets cease this Christmas night,
Only songs are heard.
If you feel a phantom step,
'Twas my heart that stirred.

If you see a dreamy light,
'Tis the Christ-Child's eyes;
I believe he watches us,
Wonderful and wise.

Let us keep our Christmas night
In the camp-light shine;
Warm your hands at the trench's fire —
They still hold mine.