The thatch of the roof was as golden,
Though dusty the straw was and old,
The wind was a peal as of trumpets,
Though blowing and barren and cold.
The mother's hair was a glory,
Though loosened and torn,
For under the eaves in the gloaming—
A child was born. Oh! if man sought a sign in the deepest, That God shaketh broadest His best; That things fairest, are oldest and simplest, In the first days created and blest. Far flush all the tufts of the clover, Thick mellows the corn, A cloud shapes, a daisy is opened— A child is born. Though the darkness be noisy with systems, Dark fancies that fret and disprove; Still the plumes stir around us, above us, The wings of the shadow of love. Still the fountains of life are unbroken, Their splendour unshorn; The secret, the symbol, the promise— A child is born. In the time of dead things it is living, In the moonless grey night is a gleam; Still the babe that is quickened may conquer, The life that is new may redeem. Ho! princes and priests, have ye …
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