What meant those men,
Far-famed and wise, who came to see the Child? 
Their gifts lie by forgotten, though the Babe
Smiled on the shining treasure in his hands. 
(Those tiny hands like crumpled bits of gauze)
Their sayings were mysterious to me. 
“A King!” they said.  What King?

The mother smiled
As one who knew; and it is true they knelt
As to a King.  The thing disturbs me much! 
I’ll ask--but no . . . . .

The breathless shepherds, too;
Plain men, blank-eyed with awe, in broken speech
Stumbling some strange, glad tale of midnight sky
A-shine with angel wings!  And at their word
Again the mother smiled, as one who sees
No wonder but what well might happen since
A child is born to her.  Are mothers so? 
And are they prone to dream the careless earth
And distant heaven wait upon their joy? 
I’ll speak to her . . . . .

What is that in her look
Which answers me—­yet leaves me wondering still,
With wonder so like rapture that I seem
Caught up a breathless second into Heaven? 
She turns deep eyes upon me, and she smiles,
Always she smiles!  Ah, Mary! could I know
The source of that glad smile—­what would I know? 
I dare not dream, save that the mystery
Is not yet given . . . one day I may know!

A Christmas Child

She came to me at Christmas time and made me mother, and it seemed
There was a Christ indeed and He had given me the joy I’d dreamed.

She nestled to me, and I kept her near and warm, surprised to find
The arms that held my babe so close were opened wider to her kind.

I hid her safe within my heart.  “My heart” I said, “is all for you,”
But lo!  She left the door ajar and all the world came flocking through.

She needed me.  I learned to know the royal joy that service brings,
She was so helpless that I grew to love all little helpless things.

She trusted me, and I who ne’er had trusted, save in self, grew cold
With panic lest this precious life should know no stronger, surer hold.

She lay and smiled and in her eyes I watched my narrow world grow broad,
Within her tiny, crumpled hand I touched the mighty hand of God!

Spring in Nazareth

“The Spring is come!” a shepherd saith;
  Sing, sweet Mary,
“The Spring is come to Nazareth
And swift the Summer hurrieth.” 
  Sing low, the barley and the corn!

Across the field a path is set—­
  Sing, sweet Mary,
Green shadow in a golden net—­
The tears of night have left it wet. 
  Sing low, the barley and the corn!

The Babe forsakes His mother’s knee,
  Haste, sweet Mary—­
See how He runneth merrily,
One foot upon the path hath He—­
  Green, green, the barley and the corn!