Christmas-Days Are Still In Store:-- Will They Change--Steal Faded Hither? Or Come Fresh As Heretofore, Summering All Our Winter Weather? Surely They Will Keep Their Bloom All The Countless Pacing Ages: In The Country Whence They Come Children Only Are The Sages! Hither, Every Hour And Year, Children Come To Cure Our Oldness-- Oft, Alas, To Gather Sear Unbelief, And Earthy Boldness! Men They Grow And Women Cold, Selfish, Passionate, And Plaining! Ever Faster They Grow Old:-- On The World, Ah, Eld Is Gaining! Child, Whose Childhood Ne'er Departs! Jesus, With The Perfect Father! Drive The Age From Parents' Hearts; To Thy Heart The Children Gather. Send Thy Birth Into Our Souls, With Its Grand And Tender Story. Hark! The Gracious Thunder Rolls!-- News To Men! To God Old Glory!