THE room was low and small and kind; And in its cupboard old, The shells were set out to my mind; The cups I loved with rims of gold. Then, with that good gift which she had, My mother showed at will, David, the ruddy Syrian lad, With his few sheep upon a hill; A shop down a rude country street, The chips strewn on the floor, And faintly keen across the heat; The simple kinsfolk at the door; Mary amid the homely din, As slim as violet; The little Jesus just within, About His father's business set. My mother rose, and then I knew As she stood smiling there, Her gown was of that gentle blue Which she had made the Virgin wear. How far the very chairs were grown! The gilt rose on each back, Into a Syrian rose was blown, And not our humble gold and black. That week long, in our acres old, Lad David did I see; From out our cups with rims of gold, The little Jesus supped with me. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...EPIGRAM: 14. TO WILLIAM CAMDEN by BEN JONSON ORANGE BUDS BY MAIL FROM FLORIDA by WALT WHITMAN THE COMMONPLACE by WALT WHITMAN THE CASE OF DOMINEERING JOHN ALEXIS UPHAM by FRANKLIN PIERCE ADAMS THE CAUTIOUS HOUSEHOLDER by ANAXILAS NOT YE WHO GOAD by LOUISA SARAH BEVINGTON WHEN TIME WAS YOUNG by SARITA HOLT BROWNLEE TO THE EARL OF CLARE by GEORGE GORDON BYRON ON THE STATUE OF CLEOPATRA, MADE INTO A FOUNTAIN BY LEO X by BALDASSARRE CASTIGLIONE |