They sleep by now in the ember-glow,
Hushed to dream in a child's delight,
For wonders happen on Christmas night:
Little mother, why must you go?
The flakes fall and the night grows late.
Oh, slender figure and small wet feet,
Where do you haste through the lamp-lit street,
And out and away by the fortress gate?
It is drear and chill where the dear lie dead,
Yet light enough with the snow to see;
But what would you do with that Christmas-tree
At the tiny mound that is baby's bed?
A Christmas-tree with its tinsel gold!
Oh, how should I not have a thought for thee,
When the children sleep in their dream of glee,
Poor little grave but a twelvemonth old!
Little mother, your heart is brave,
You kiss the cross in the drifted snow,
Kneel for a moment, rise and go
And leave your tree by the tiny grave.
While the living slept by the warm fireside,
And flakes fell white on your Christmas toy,
I think that its angel wept for joy
Because you remembered the one that died.
Rennell Rodd.