All that long day she journeyed; She scanned the desert wide, In all its lonely reaches There was no soul beside—
No track to guide her onward, No footprints in the sand, Only the vast, still spaces Wide-stretched on either hand!
Night came—but where the Wise Men Had seen His burning star, No glorious sign beheld she Clear beaming from afar,
Though Orion and Arcturus Shone bright above her head, And up the heavenly arches Proud Mars his legions led!
She did not find the Christ-child. ’Tis said she seeks Him still, Over the wide earth roaming With swift, remorseful will.
Her thin white locks the dew-fall Of every clime has wet— In palace and in hovel She seeks Messiah yet!
In every child she fancies The Hidden One may be, On each bright head she gazes The mystic crown to see.
She twines the Christmas garlands, She lights the Christmas fires, She leads the joyful carols Of all the Christmas choirs;
She feeds the poor and hungry, And on her tender breast She soothes all suffering children To softest, sweetest rest.