Joseph

NEVER in all her sweet and holy youth Seemed she so beautiful! The tired lines Etch her white face with look so wholly pure I tremble — dare I speak to her of aught?—

She is so wrapt in silence. Yet her lips Part on a word whose honey she doth taste And fears to lose by uttering too soon. I know the word; its meaning is plain writ

In the wide eyes she turns upon the Child. I dare not speak. No word of mine could find Its way into a soul close sealed with God And busy with the thousand mysteries

Revealed to every mother. The soft hair Veiling her placid brow is all unbound, Ungentle hands are mine but, trained by love, She might conceive them gentle — yet, I pause —

I'll not disturb her thought..... 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!