A glove she gave a beggar once and he bought back with gold. And so the throng came eddying in, and with the splendor went Ripple of silver laughter and of whispered compliment. The torches flamed and faltered, sending up white whirls of smoke, To hang as twilight in the roof raftered with crookèd oak. Up from the chimney log the notes of many woodlands sang; Quick through the flame the colors of a hundred summers sprang. The blaze threw on the arrased wall a gush of golden light, Where hung Saint Stephen’s shield between two angels in still flight, Forever moving upward toward the cherubs overhead, Now sinking into shade and now breaking to rosy red. A swinging door, a spicy smell, and beaming Hugolin With smoking boar’s head lifted high came proudly panting in. And as the sparkling feast went on the board began to stir With talk of knightly valor and the Holy Sepulchre, With prattle of the tidings from Jerusalem and Rome; But sweet Elizabeth, her thoughts were not so far from home. In spite of rosy radiance, in spite of trumpet calls, The Sorrow of the People sent its shadow through the walls. For sitting there beside her lord a sudden silence came Upon her soul, and all the voices and the horn’s acclaim Died; and the glowing pageant broke and faded into air, And only the faces of the poor whose tables are so bare Pressed in upon her soul that night, pressed in that gala night; Only the toilers’ cheerless homes rose on her inward sight. And then a graver thought let in a darkness on her heart— A thought of all the feasts they spread of which they have no part— A thought, too, of this splendor on this holy Christmas eve, A splendor wrung from toiling hands by those that tax and thieve. Of all those fragrant dishes only two would not profane; Only the bread and water there had come of honest gain; These only were not pilfered from the toiler’s lean supply; And these she took with happy hands, but let the rest go by. And so the table roared away into the winter night, Until the toasts went round the board with laughter at the height. They drank to saints and prophets old, to Peter and Isadore, To Stephen, Vincent, Boniface, and to a dozen more. Then valiant Wolfram in his turn upstarted with a cry: “Drink to Archangel Michael, that good fighter in the sky, That prince of God that all the hosts of Satan could not tame!” Up to their feet the feasters sprang at that great angel’s name. Clinking their cups from side to side, they made, in the torches’ flare, The sign of the cross with their jewelled cups high flashing in the air. Now cried the duke: “Not all the saints have felt the wind of death; Come, drink to one who walks the Earth, my wife Elizabeth; And I will pledge her beauty with this water in her cup.” So stooping down he caught and swung her golden goblet up,