That high-born dame of Hungary who felt the common woe—
Who loved the work-worn multitude whose pillow is a stone,
And felt beat in upon her heart their sorrow as her own.
She bent to lift, for in her blood ran some heroic strain
Of simple serving majesty strayed down from Charlemagne.
Queen of a hundred legends, star of a misty past,
While cities rise and cities fade, her memory will last.
It was upon a Christmas eve, and all the world was white
With snow that sent an awesome hush on hollow and on height;
And green boughs bended with hoar weight, and under them the birds