Canto XXIX
With such compelling cause to grieveAs daily vexes household peace,And chains regret to his decease,How dare we keep our Christmas-eve;
Which brings no more a welcome guestTo enrich the threshold of the nightWith shower’d largess of delight,In dance and song and game and jest.
Yet go, and while the holly boughsEntwine the cold baptismal font,Make one wreath more for Use and Wont,That guard the portals of the house;
Old sisters of a day gone by,Gray nurses, loving nothing new;Why should they miss their yearly dueBefore their time? They too will die.