Sometimes, against the dark faces of the housefronts, window shades were rolled up, like eyelids opening, on home-pictures that reminded the Bishop it was Christmas night Christmas morning, blue-black, pricked with stars against the Bishop’s window panes. Westbury lay asleep beside its curving river, the great old houses with gardens that ran terraced to the bank, the churches, the college, even the new teeming tenements at the bending of the water, all lay asleep in the Christmas dawning. The Bishop alone was awake, and against the darkness before his eyes pictures raced. He had been a poet once, so long ago that when sometimes they sang his hymns in church he had forgotten they were his…
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