Prince Ragnal, and other holiday verses

by Eleanor C. Donnelly

Then, “Christus—natus—est!”—it sings.

—The ox roars “Ubi?—Where?”

But, soft thro’ swaths of sun-dried grass,

It hears the lamb below,

From out the shimmering, scented mass,

Bleat: “Beth’lem! Beth’lem!”—Brays the ass:

“Eamus!—Let us go!”

And ’round about the hive (whose zone