A PORTRAIT

Fair faces crowd on Christmas night

Like seven suns a-row,

But all beyond is the wolfish wind

And the crafty feet of the snow.

But through the rout one figure goes

With quick and quiet tread;

Her robe is plain, her form is frail —

Wait if she turn her head.

I say no word of line or hue,

But if that face you see,

Your soul shall know the smile of faith's

Awful frivolity.

Know that in this grotesque old masque

Too loud we cannot sing,

Or dance too wild, or speak too wide

To praise a hidden thing.

That though the jest be old as night,

Still shaketh sun and sphere

An everlasting laughter

Too loud for us to hear.