A Song of the Virgin Mother

As ye go through these palm-trees

O holy angel;

Sith sleepeth my child here

Still ye the branches.

O Bethlehem palm-trees

That move to the anger

Of winds in their fury,

Tempestuous voices,

Make ye no clamour,

Run ye less swiftly,

Sith sleepeth the child here

Still ye your branches.

He the divine child

Is here a-wearied

Of weeping the earth-pain,

Here for his rest would he

Cease from his mourning,

Only a little while,

Sith sleepeth this child here

Stay ye the branches.

Cold be the fierce winds,

Treacherous round him.

Ye see that I have not

Wherewith to guard him,

O angels, divine ones

That pass us a-flying,

Sith sleepeth my child here

Stay ye the branches.