This hallowed stem the Druids once adored,
And now I wreathe it round my bleeding Lord;
So might my spirit around his image twine,
And find support, as in its oak a vine!

" I am the Vine, " He said; Lord, then let me
Be just a tendril clinging to the tree
Where the Jews nailed Thee bodily, to grow
Fruit for all fainting souls that grope below.

May this green hope that in my heart is born
Blossom before another Christmas morn!
Then my weird mistletoe I'll cast away,
And hang up lilies to record the day.