Lucy Larcom Poems

'For unto us a Child is born.'
NOT, Mary, unto thee alone,
Though blessed among women thou:
Not thine, nor yet thy nation's own,
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MIGHT a door but be opened in heaven!
Might we look for a moment within!
Might only one comforting glimpse be given,
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I do not own an inch of land,
But all I see is mine,—
The orchard and the mowing-fields,
The lawns and gardens fine.
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SAY not of thy friend departed,
'He is dead:' — he is but grown
Larger-souled and deeper-hearted,
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THE sunrise over the houses!
The beautiful rose of dawn
Reddening the eastern windows, —
The curtains of Night withdrawn!
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WHAT is the daily bread,
Father, we ask of Thee, —
We, who must still be fed
Out of Thy bounty free?
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O SCOFFER! He who from the cross
Looked down thy dark abysm of loss,
And knew His pain alone could win
Such souls as thine from gulfs of sin, —
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IT is His birthday — His, the Holy Child!
And innocent childhood blossoms now anew,
Under the dropping of celestial dew
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OUR way stir is onward; the world is yet young
With a beauty that never was dreamed of, or sung:
Her wonders for eyes that can see them unfold;
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LIFE is growth, and growth is change:
Shall the new be counted strange,
While the rich Past lends perfume
To the Present in its bloom?
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