ATTENDANTS

The mild-eyed Oxen and the gentle Ass,

By manger or in pastures that they graze,

Lift their slow heads to watch us where we pass,

A reminiscent wonder in their gaze.

Their low humility is like a crown,

A grave distinction they have come to wear,—

Their look gone past us — to a little Town,

And a white miracle that happened there.

An old, old vision haunts those quiet eyes,

Where proud remembrance drifts to them again,

Of Something that has made them humbly wise,

— These burden-bearers for the race of men —

And lightens every load they lift or pull,

Something that chanced because the Inn was full.