Joseph

NEVER in all her sweet and holy youth

Seemed she so beautiful! The tired lines

Etch her white face with look so wholly pure

I tremble — dare I speak to her of aught?—

She is so wrapt in silence. Yet her lips

Part on a word whose honey she doth taste

And fears to lose by uttering too soon.

I know the word; its meaning is plain writ

In the wide eyes she turns upon the Child.

I dare not speak. No word of mine could find

Its way into a soul close sealed with God

And busy with the thousand mysteries

Revealed to every mother. The soft hair

Veiling her placid brow is all unbound,

Ungentle hands are mine but, trained by love,

She might conceive them gentle — yet, I pause —

I'll not disturb her thought.....

What meant those men,

Far-famed and wise, who came to see the Child?

Their gifts lie by forgotten, though the Babe

Smiled on the shining treasure in his hands.

( Those tiny hands like crumpled bits of gauze )

Their sayings were mysterious to me.

“A King!” they said. What King?

The mother smiled

As one who knew; and it is true they knelt

As to a King. The thing disturbs me much!

I'll ask — but no.....

The breathless shepherds, too;

Plain men, blank-eyed with awe, in broken speech

Stumbling some strange, glad tale of midnight sky

A-shine with angel wings! And at their word

Again the mother smiled, as one who sees

No wonder but what well might happen since

A child is born to her. Are mothers so?

And are they prone to dream the careless earth

And distant heaven wait upon their joy?

I'll speak to her.....

What is that in her look

Which answers me — yet leaves me wondering still,

With wonder so like rapture that I seem

Caught up a breathless second into Heaven?

She turns deep eyes upon me, and she smiles,

Always she smiles! Ah, Mary! could I know

The source of that glad smile — what would I know?

I dare not dream, save that the mystery

Is not yet given... one day I may know!