But when the pale king knelt in the stall She heard on the straw his tears down fall. And she stooped where he knelt beside her feet And laid on his bosom her baby sweet. And the king in the holy stable-place Felt the little lips through the tears on his face. * * * * * * * Christ! lay Thy hand on the angry king Who reigns in my breast to my undoing, And lay thy hands on the king who lays The spell of sadness on all my days, And give the white king my soul, Thy soul, Of these other kings the high control. That soul and spirit and sense may meet In adoration before Thy feet! Now Glory to God the Father Most High, And the Star, the Spirit, He leads us by. And to God's dear Son, the Babe who was born And laid in the manger on Christmas morn! IX. AFTER DEATH. IF we must part, this parting is the best: How would you bear to lay Your head on some warm pillow far away-- Your head, so used to lying on my breast? But now your pillow is cold; Your hands have flowers, and not my hands, to hold; Upon our bed the worn bride-linen lies. I have put the death-money upon your eyes, So that you should not wake up in the night. I have bound your face with white; I have washed you, yes, with water and not with tears,-- Those arms wherein I have slept so many years, Those feet that hastened when they came to me, And all your body that belonged to me. I have smoothed your dear dull hair, And there is nothing left to say for you And nothing left to fear or pray for you; And I have got the rest of life to bear: Thank God it is you, not I, who are lying there. If I had died And you had stood beside This still white bed Where the white, scented, horrible flowers are spread,-- I know the thing it is, And I thank God that He has spared you this. If one must bear it, thank God it was I Who had to live and bear to see you die, Who have to live, and bear to see you dead. You will have nothing of it all to bear: You will not even know that in your bed You lie alone. You will not miss my head Beside you on the pillow: you will rest So soft in the grave you will not miss my breast. But I--but I--Your pillow and your place-- And only the darkness laid against my face, And only my anguish pressed against my side-- Thank God, thank God, that it was you who died! CHLOE. NIGHT wind sighing through the poplar leaves, Trembling of the aspen, shivering of the willow, Every leafy voice of all the night-time grieves, Mourning, weeping over Chloe's pillow. Chloe, fresher than the breeze of dawn, Fairer than the larches in their young spring glory, Brighter than the glow-worms on the dewy lawn, Hear the dirge the green trees sing to end your story:--