Classic Poem

A GAIN the royalties are shed,
Disdiademed the kingly head,
He lies again — ah, very small! —
Among the cattle in the stall,
Or in His slender mother's arms
Is snuggled up from baby harms.

The Tower of Ivory leans down
From Paradise's topmost crown;
The House of Gold on earth takes root;
From Jesse comes a saving shoot,
For Mary gives (O manifold
Her courtesies!) that we may hold
Our little Lord's poor fragile hands
And feet, the guerdon of all lands.

No fool need fail to enter in
The guarded Heaven we strive to win,
Or miss upon a casual street
The fiery impress of His feet,
But touch with every stone and sod
The extended fingers of our God,
And see in twigs of the stiff hedgerows,
Or in the woods where quiet grows
Among the naked Winter trees,
A thousand times these mysteries:
The branching arms with Christly fruit,
The thorns which bruise His head and foot.

No more with silver shrilly blown
He treads a conqueror, but, flown
With swift and silent whitening wings,
He comes enwrapped in baby things.
Our God adventures everywhere
Beneath the cool and Christmas air,
And setteth still His candid star
Where Mary and her baby are!