Now when his face was hidden From the least of these, One, bidden by the helplessness Of the man on the side of the hill, Came from the shelter of Mary’s hair, And minding not her warning touch, Nor her sounding of his name, Knowing he was not chidden much, Went winding an idle way Up the hill, and around and away From the still bowed man. And first he picked a flower Which he threw higher toward the fence-rail. God smiled in His sleep, And Jesus opened His eyes, Put forth a hand for the plucked flower, And hid it in His breast, Yet did not rise nor cease His rest. The Child, Keeping a moody soft eye upon the grey humped figure, Betrayed his mischief in a smile That waxed bigger, bubble-like, and broke into a laugh, And like a thief in the night Crept up the hill to the fence-rail, And peeked. The fence-rail creaked As Jesus turned His face to him: “Poor man, dear boy,” he whispered silverly, “Until he learns to play, To dress his dusty head With ribbons of the rosy day, Never can he share Your early morning passion, Flecked with foamy curls of hair. Would you give him back again To my bosom, cleansed of pain, Spill your living ways of laughing In his muffled ears; At him, and beset him! Splash him, little dears, In your fun,” Jesus bade the boy. “Run!” And the Child winked, Yes, Turned about and ran, Put his flying hands upon the shoulders of the man, And while a star blinked At what he saw, The Child broke the law of sin As he leaped over Judas in the old, old game; Ran screaming down to Mary’s covering hair, But did not linger there; Sped back and bounded over once again, And others captured by the first one’s joy Were startled into rapture And followed, girl and boy, In the glamour of the game, Until the sunken man became Bathed and spattered, Shaken, shattered and half-hidden, In the breaking foam of Children. There came a pause When the Little Ones, breathing Hard about Judas, saw him raise his head, Saw a smile like theirs, wreathing His face, washed with sleep, As though he waked in his bed From the keep of angels. In his eyes remembrance shone Of when he was a boy And looked upon the face of God everywhere; Of when he was himself a toy, A plaything of a God who dreamed Everywhere and everything. And when the Children saw Upon his face the broken law Of sin dissolve like shadows In a ruined wood; When they saw the sun come up Within him, fill his face as the cup Of the world is filled, They spilled their bubbling laughter on the air, And cuddled to his knees As though he, too, were of the least of these. His greedy arms inarticulately stuffed With bloomy charms, His roughed voice sweet With honey of his joy, he began: