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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THE sunrise over the houses!
The beautiful rose of dawn
Reddening the eastern windows, —
The curtains of Night withdrawn!
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BECAUSE it cometh up, a heavenly flower,
Out of the earth, divinely sown therein,
To gather grace from shadow and from shower,
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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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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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THE quiet of a shadow-haunted pool,
Where light breaks through in glorious tenderness;
Where the tranced pilgrim in the shelter cool
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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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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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