The snow lies quiet on the ground And glistens on the tree; The sky is bright with a star's great light, And clearly I behold Three Kings descending yonder hill, Whose crowns are crowns of gold. O Mary, what do you hear and see With your brow toward the West? Mary: The snow lies glistening on the tree And silent on Earth's breast; And strong and tall, with lifted eyes Seven shepherds walk this way, And angels breaking from the skies Dance, and sing hymns, and pray. Joseph: I wonder much at these bright Kings; The shepherds I despise. Mary: You know not what a shepherd sings, Nor see his shining eyes. THE QUEEN'S SONG Had I the power To Midas given of old To touch a flower And leave the petals gold, I then might touch thy face, Delightful boy, And leave a metal grace, A graven joy. Thus would I slay-- Ah, desperate device! The vital day That trembles in thine eyes, And let the red lips close Which sang so well, And drive away the rose To leave a shell. Then I myself, Rising austere and dumb, On the high shelf Of my half-lighted room, Would place the shining bust And wait alone, Until I was but dust, Buried unknown. Thus in my love For nations yet unborn, I would remove From our two lives the morn, And muse on loveliness In mine armchair, Content should Time confess How sweet you were. * * * * * WILFRID WILSON GIBSON THE HARE My hands were hot upon a hare, Half-strangled, struggling in a snare--- My knuckles at her warm wind-pipe-- When suddenly, her eyes shot back, Big, fearful, staggering and black; And ere I knew, my grip was slack; And I was clutching empty air, Half-mad, half-glad at my lost luck ... When I awoke beside the stack. 'Twas just the minute when the snipe As though clock-wakened, every jack, An hour ere dawn, dart in and out The mist-wreaths filling syke and slack, And flutter wheeling round about, And drumming out the Summer night. I lay star-gazing yet a bit; Then, chilly-skinned, I sat upright, To shrug the shivers from my back; And, drawing out a straw to suck, My teeth nipped through it at a bite ... The liveliest lad is out of pluck An hour ere dawn--a tame cock-sparrow-- When cold stars shiver through his marrow, And wet mist soaks his mother-wit.