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,