Classic Poem

I

There was no room within the inn for them.
The Woman who, beneath her girdle, bare
Sweet Comfort for the world, a stranger there,
Lay all that solemn night in Bethlehem
Within a manger; Jesse's Root and Stem
Should spring the very morrow, strong and fair
And all the slumbering world was unaware.
We, who still slumber, how shall we condemn?

She lies, alone with God, this holy eve;
She, whose glad eyes will look to-morrow morn
With rapture on the blessed Man-Child born;
She, who in three-and-thirty years will grieve,
Pierced to the heart; she, who will yet receive
The garland of the Rose without a thorn.

II

Oh, was there never a woman there to say,
" Behold, this Woman is nigh her travailing,"
And take her by the hand, and gently bring
Into a room, and softly speak, and lay
The Woman down, and watch by her till day?
Until the shadows fled, and light should spring,
And with the springing light the Holy Thing?
We, blind and cold, nor dare to blame, nor may.

And yet, if men had felt the throbbing breast
Of night alive with wonder, and the fair
Great dawn, they had left their beds all empty there,
Nor cared a whit for any sleep or rest.
We, have not we rejected any guest —
Dismissed the more than angel unaware?