A BELGIAN CHRISTMAS

An hour from dawn:

The snow sweeps on

As it swept with sleet last night:

The Earth around

Breathes never a sound,

Wrapped in its shroud of white.

A waked cock crows

Under the snows;

Then silence.— After while

The sky grows blue,

And a star looks through

With a kind o’ bitter smile.

A whining dog;

An axe on a log,

And a muffled voice that calls:

A cow's long low;

Then footsteps slow

Stamping into the stalls.

A bed of straw

Where the wind blows raw

Through cracks of the stable door:

A child's small cry,

A voice nearby,

That says, “One mouth the more.”

A different note

In a man's rough throat

As he turns at an entering tread —

Satyrs! see!

“My woman — she

Was brought last night to bed!”

A cry of “Halt!” —

“Ach! ich bin kalt!”

“A spy!” — “No.” — “That is clear!

There's a good shake-down

I’ the jail in town —

For her!” — And then, “My orders here.”

A shot, sharp-rolled

As the clouds unfold:

A scream; and a cry forlorn....

Clothed red with fire,

Like the Heart's Desire,

Look down the Christmas Morn.

The babe with light

Is haloed bright,

And it is Christmas Day:

A cry of woe;

Then footsteps slow,

And the wild guns, far away.