"Why do they make this mummery?
Would not a brave man gladly die
For a much smaller thing
Than to be Christ and king?"
He answered nothing, and I turned.
Throned in its hundred candles burned
The jeweled eidolon
Of her who bore the Son.
The crowd was prostrate; still, I felt
No shame until the stranger knelt;
Then not to kneel, almost
Seemed like a vulgar boast.
I knelt. The doll-face, waxen white,
Flowered out a living dimness; bright
Dawned the dear mortal grace
Of my own mother's face.
When we were risen up, the street
Was vacant; all the air hung sweet
With lemon-flowers; and soon
The sky would hold the moon.
More silently than new-found friends
To whom much silence makes amends
For the much babble vain
While yet their lives were twain,
We walked along the odorous hill.
The light was little yet; his will
I could not see to trace
Upon his form or face.
So when aloft the gold moon broke,
I cried, heart-stung. As one who woke
He turned unto my cries
The anguish of his eyes.
"Friend! Master!" I cried falteringly,
"Thou seest the thing they make of thee.
Oh, by the light divine
My mother shares with thine,
"I beg that I may lay my head
Upon thy shoulder and be fed