Until at last it burst in words, because at last I knew,
And then he looked at me and laughed and sang the star-song too.
And right across the misty fields I heard the church bells ring,
The star-song echoed far and wide for all the world to sing,
But still the tiny Child stood there—the Child that once was born—
We sang His birthday song—we did—upon His Christmas morn.
M. Nightingale
IN PRÆSEPIO
In stable straw the Infant lay,