SHE treads the unseen stair of heaven, And safely step by step comes down; She waits until the fall of even, When lamps are lighted in the town; And then her tender footsteps come Through the remembered ways to home. She bears her Babe upon her arm, Her babe enfolded in a dream; Her Babe against her breast is warm; With locks that backward wave and stream, And eyes of deep, unearthly bliss: Oh, whose mysterious Child is this? "It is mine own!" each mother cries; The lovely face come back to her, The little kissing mouth that lies Close to her cheek, the eager stir Of little arms her neck around, So glad to be at home, and found. To every mother's heart that grieves Over her lost, her little ones, She carries home on Christmas Eves The daughters missing and the sons: Oh, they are glad to see again The house they left in tears and pain. "I give you back your child I keep, The child I keep for all of you; On mossy violet beds they sleep, They play 'mid daisies filled with dew: I wear for them your face and eyes, I could not soothe them otherwise." And yet—her deep eyes speak for her:— "It is my own child that I bring: The heart of heaven is holier; Yet my heart still keeps pondering On the old lowliness of earth, The winter day, the night of birth. The narrow cave at Bethlehem, Its darkness and its poverty, What were the heights of heaven to them, That night of His nativity? This night I come to be alone With Him, the Child that is my own. The throne in heaven, the great white throne, Th'illimitable fields of light, The glory of th' ascended One, The splendour of the Saints in white, Could not console me for that first Hour when my Babe new-born I nursed. Oh, heavy is a crown to wear, Even a crown in Paradise; I weary sometimes, set to bear The gaze of these adoring eyes; My wakeful heart for silence moans, Amid the myriad music-tones. Through singing of the Morning star, Through highest heaven's triumphal hymn, Through pealing bells from churches far, Through voices of the Seraphim, Pierces one small and helpless cry;— I hear it, Joseph hears and I. It calls me, and I cannot stay: For you and me the selfsame grace:— There shall be never on Christmas Day By mothers' hearths an empty place; As past the stars, and past the suns, I bear to earth the little ones." ENVOI Oh, the angels carry them away, The cruel angels who never have wept, But Mary remembers all the day The sorrowful watch by the Cross she kept. The angels will never turn nor stay, Nor sigh for the mother's arms bereft; But Mary carries them all the way When they revisit the home they left. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...AMOUR by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON A SEA-SHORE GRAVE by SIDNEY LANIER WITH CHAOS IN EACH KISS by TIMOTHY LIU TO-MORROW TO FRESH WOODS AND PASTURES NEW' by AMY LOWELL TO AN EARLY DAFFODIL; SONNET by AMY LOWELL DOMESDAY BOOK: HENRY BAKER, AT NEW YORK by EDGAR LEE MASTERS |