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We sate among the stalls
at Bethlehem;
The dumb kine from their
fodder turning them,
Softened their horn'd
faces,
To almost human gazes
Toward the newly Born:
The simple shepherds
from the star-lit brooks
Brought visionary looks,
As yet in their
astonished hearing rung
The strange sweet
angel-tongue:
The magi of the East, in
sandals worn,
Knelt reverent, sweeping
round,
With long pale beards,
their gifts upon the
ground,
The incense, myrrh, and
gold
These baby hands were
impotent to hold:
So let all earthlies and
celestials wait
Upon thy royal state.
Sleep, sleep, my kingly
One! |
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