I see the blue-gray wood-smoke curled From hearths where life has rhymed to love, I see the kingdoms of the world-- The glory and the power thereof, And cry, “Ah, vainly have I striven!” And then a voice calls, soft and low: “Thou gavest My Earth to win My Heaven; But Heaven-on-Earth thou mayest not know!” It is not for Thy Heaven, O Lord, That I renounced Thy pleasant earth-- The ship, the furrow, and the sword-- The dreams of death, the dreams of birth! Weary of vigil, fast, and prayer, Weak in my hope and in my faith-- O Christ, for whom this cross I bear, Meet me beside the gate of Death! When the night comes, then let me rest (O Christ, who sanctifiest pain!) Falling asleep upon Thy breast, And, if Thou wilt, wake never again! THE CROWN OF LIFE The days, the doubts, the dreams of pain Are over, not to come again, And from the menace of the night Has dawned the day-star of delight: My baby lies against me pressed-- Thus, Mother of God, are mothers blessed! His little head upon my arm, His little body soft and warm, His little feet that cannot stand Held in the heart of this, my hand. His little mouth close on my breast-- Thus, Mary’s Son, are mothers blessed. All dreams of deeds, all deeds of day Are very faint and far away, Yet you some day will stand upright And fight God’s foes, in manhood’s might, You--tiny, worshipped, clasped, caressed-- Thus, Mother of God, are mothers blessed. Whatever grief may come to be This hour divine goes on for me. All glorious is my little span, Since I, like God, have made a man, A little image of God’s best-- Thus, Mary’s Son, are mothers blessed. Come change, come loss, come worlds of tears, Come endless chain of empty years; They cannot take away the hour That gives me You--my bird, my flower! Thank God for this! Leave God the rest!-- Thus, Mother of God, are mothers blessed. MAGNIFICAT This is Christ’s birthday: long ago He lay upon His Mother’s knee, Who kissed and blessed Him soft and low-- God’s gift to her, as you to me. My baby dear, my little one, The love that rocks this cradling breast Is such as Mary gave her Son: She was more honoured, not more blest. He smiled as you smile: not more sweet Than your eyes were those eyes of His, And just such little hands and feet As yours Our Lady used to kiss. The world’s desire that Mother bore: She held a King upon her knee: O King of all my world, and more Than all the world’s desire to me! I thank God on the Christmas morn, For He has given me all things good: This body which a child has borne, This breast, made holy for his food.