"One sails to wake a world that has been lying
Hid in its leaves, far in the lonesome West,
In an enchanted sleep, with strange winds sighing
Among the strange flowers in her dreaming breast.
And One—I held Him first—the immortal Stranger!
I smell, to-night, the frankincense and myrrh;
I see the star-led wise men and the manger;
And his own Mother—I remember her!
"But—where's my cloak? Is this a time for sorrow?
... And where's the story, do you ask of me?