Oh, pudgy porcelain puppy dog from far-away Japan,I saw you in a shop to-day where lonesomely yousatUpon a velvet cushion that was colored gold andpurple,Between a bowl of goldfish, and a sleeping woodencat.I wonder what you thought about as stolidly you satthere,A grin of faint derision on your pudgy porcelainface;I wonder if you dreamed about some cherry blossomtea house,And if the goldfish bored you in their paintedChinese case?I wonder if you dreamed about the laughter of thegeishasAs languidly they danced across the shininglacquered floor,I wonder if your thoughts were with a purple clumpof irisThat bloomed, all through the summer, by thelittle tea house door?I wonder if you hated us who passed, you by unheeding,You who had known the temples of another, olderland?And, oh, I wonder if you knew when I had pausedbeside youTo pat you, porcelain puppy dog, that I couldunderstand?
I love color.I love flaming reds,And vivid greens,And royal flaunting purples.I love the startled rose of the sun at dawning,And the blazing orange of it at twilight.I love color.I love the drowsy blue of the fringed gentian,And the yellow of the goldenrod,And the rich russet of the leavesThat turn at autumn-time....I love rainbows,And prisms,And the tinsel glitterOf every shop-window.I love color.And yet today,I saw a brown little birdPerched on the dull-gray fenceOf a weed-filled city yard.And as I watched himThe little birdThrew back his headDefiantly, almost,And sang a songThat was full of gay ripples,And poignant sweetness,And half-hidden melody.1 love color....I love crimson, and azure,And the glowing purity of white.And yet today,I saw a living bit of brown,A vague oasis on a streak of gray,That brought heavenVery near to me.
POSSESSION(A TENEMENT MOTHER SPEAKS)Y' ain't as pretty as some babies are—But, oh, yer mine!Yer lil' fingers sorter seem t' twineAroun' my soul.Yer eyes are bright, t' me, as any star,Yer hair's like gol'.Some people say yer hair is sandy-red,An' that yer eyes is sorter wan an' pale,An' that yer lil' body looks, well, frail....Y' ain't been fedLike rich folks children are....It takes fresh airTer keep a baby fat an' strong an' pink!It takes more care,'N I have time ter give....An' yet, if God'll only let yer live—When yer first came,An' when I seen yer face, deep down insideMy heart I felt—well, sorter broke an' tore,'Cause when yer came ter me I like ter died,An' I had lost my job, there at th' store.I looked at you, an' oh, it wasn't prideI felt, but bitterness an' shame!An' then yer gropin' fingers touched my hand,As helpless as a snow-flake in the air,Yer didn't know, yer couldn't understand,('Cause yer was new t' this cold-hearted land),That life ain't fair!Yer didn't know if I was good, 'r bad,'R much ter see—Y' only knew that I belonged, an' oh,Yer trusted me!Somehow, right there, I didn't stop ter thinkThat yer was white an' thin—instead o' pink,An' that yer lips, an' not yer eyes, was blue...I got t' thinkin' how, when work was throughI'd sing t' yer, an' rock yer off t' rest.I got t' thinkin' that I had been blessed,More than th' richest girl I'd ever knew!An' oh, I held yer tight against my breast,An', lookin' far ahead, I dreamed an' plannedThat I would work th' fingers off my handFer you!An' mother-love swept on me like a tide,An', oh, I cried!Some people say yer hair is sandy-red,But they don't know;They say yer eyes is sorter pale an' weak,But it ain't so!It's jus' because yer never been well fed,An' never had a lil' cribby bed;It's jus' because yer never had a peekAt th' blue sky—That's why!Yer ain't so pretty as some babies are,But, oh, t' me yer like a silver starThat, through th' darkest night can smile an'shine....Yer ain't as pretty as some babies are,But, God, yer mine!
He was young,And his mindWas filled with the science of economicsThat he had studied in college.And as we talked about the food riots,And high prices,And jobless men,He said:"It's all stupid and wrong,"This newspaper talk!"Folk have no business to starve."The price of labor always advances,"Proportionally,"With the price of food!""Any man," he said,A moment later,"Can earn at least two dollars a day"By working on a railroad,"Or in the street cleaning department!"What if potatoes DO cost"Eight cents a pound?"Wages are high, too...."People have no reason to starve."I listened to him prayerfully(More or less),For I had never been to college,And I didn't know much about economics.But—As I walked to the window,And looked out over the veiled, mysterious lightsOf the city,I couldn't help thinkingOf a little babyThat I had seen a few days ago;A baby of the slums—thin, and joyless,And old of face,But with eyesLike the eyes of the Christ Child.. ..A baby—crying for bread—And.... I wondered....
They think that we're just animals, almost,We men who work with steel.A lady visitor was here th' other day,She looked at me, an' I could hear her say,"My, what a life! I s'pose his only boast"Is muscles!"She's wrong. We feelA certain pride, a certain sort o' joy,When some great blazin' mass is tamed an' turnedInto an engine wheel. Our hands get burned,An' sometimes half our hair is scorched away—But, well, it's fun!Perhaps you've seen a boy,Who did hard work he loved, an' called it play?Know what I mean? Well, that's the way we feel,We men who work with steel.A lady visitor was here th' other day;She held her skirts right dainty in her hand,An' as she passed me by, I heard her say,"I wonder what he THINKS—or if his head"Is just a piece o' metal, too!" She saidIt laughin'-like.She didn't understand,She couldn't know that we have dreams as grand,As any SHE could have. We wonder whereTh' rivets that we make are goin' to,An' if th' engine wheels we turn, will goThrough tropic heat, or if they'll plow through snow;An' as we watch, we sorter grow to careAbout th' steel. Why it's as shiny blueAs j'ew'ls! An' every bit is, well, a partOf life to us. Sometimes my very heartThanks God that I've a man-sized job to do!
Over a slum his sign swings out,Over a street where the city's shoutIs deadened into a sob of pain—Where even joy has a minor strain."Violins made," read the sign. It swingsOver a street where sorrow sings;Over a street where people giveTheir right to laugh for a chance to live.He works alone with his head bent lowAnd all the sorrow and all the woe,And all the pride of a banished race,Stare from the eyes that light his face.But he never sighs and his slender hand,Fastens the cat-gut, strand by strand—Fastens it tight, but tenderlyAs if he dreams of some melody.Some melody of his yesterday....Will it, I wonder, find its wayOut to the world, when fingers creepOver the strings that lie asleep?Or will the city's miseryMould the song in a tragic key—Making its sweetest, faintest breathThrill with sorrow, and throb with death?Maker of music—who can knowWhere the work of his hand shall go?Maybe its slightest phrase will bring,Comfort to ease the suffering—Maybe his dreams will have their partBuried deep in the music's heart....Out of a chain of dreary days,Joy may come as some master plays!Over a slum his sign hangs out,Over a street where dread meets doubt—"Violins made," reads the sign. It swingsOver a street where sorrow sings.
(Side by side and silent—eagerly they stand—Souls look out of tired eyes, hands are claspedtogether,Through the thrilling softness of the late springweather,All a city slum is out to listen to the band.)Young love and Maytime, hear the joyous strain,Listen to a serenade written long ago!You will recognize the song—you who care mustknowFear that blends with happiness, joy that touchespain.Rabbi with the grizzled beard hear adventure's story!Hear the tale the music tells, thrilling with ro-mance,Hear the clatter of a sword, hear a broken lanceFalling from some hero's hand, red with blood-stained glory.(Tenements on either side, light-flecked in the gloam-ing,Tenements on either side, stark and tall and gray—Ah, the folk who line your halls wander far away,All a crowded city slum is a-gypsie roaming!)Woman with the brooding gaze, hear the liltinglaughterOf the children that you loved, feel their soft-lipped kisses;Think of all the little joys that a hard worldmisses-What though bitter loneliness always follows after?Gangster with the shifty eyes, listen to the sighingOf the hymn tune that you heard at your mother'sknee;Listen to the restless ghost of the used-to-be,Listen to a wistful ghost's empty-hearted crying.(Tenements on either side—menacing they stand—Light-flecked in the softness of the late springweather....But young love and broken life are standing closetogether,And all a city slum is out to listen to the band.)
He's very old, his music box is old and rusty, too,And half the notes of it are harsh, and half ofthem are slow;One wonders if the coat he wears could ever havebeen new—And if the tune he plays was quite forgotten longago.He finds a sunny place to stand, and lifts his blearyeyes,And smiles a bit—a toothless smile half touched,perhaps, with fear;And though he cannot see them he is looking at theskies,As if he prays, but silently, for hope and faithand cheer.The foreign women pass him by, their tarnished coinsheld tight,They toss their heads and will not hear his music'swistful hum—But through each alley way and street, like mothsthat seek the light,With eager eyes and laughing lips the little chil-dren come.He plays his ancient, shaky song, his mouth moves toits sway,He does not know the tune of it is old and out ofkey;For, through his eyes, a soul stares out that wandersfar away,In some fair land of youth and love—some landthat used to be.The little children cluster close, bareheaded, bare oflimb—They hold their ragged frocks and dance, they donot care—or know,That they are like a garden place, a fragrant dreamto him,Or that the tune he plays was quite forgotten longago.
Temptation came to me today,And oh, I felt that I must strayDown primrose paths, forgetting all....The city's fevered, siren callSpoke to my soul, its whispered crySaid, "Live, for Youth, too soon, will die!"So all alone, when work was done,I sought the park. The setting sunHad left a bit of warmth for me—I found a bench beneath a tree,And sat and thought.My life is hard,Sometimes my heart seems battle-scarred,With longings keen, and bitter fears,And want, and suffering, and tears.Temptation spoke, and Youth spoke back;The night seemed cold and grimly black,And every light was like a starThat cleft the sky—they were so far,So very far away! And IWas lonely, there, beneath the sky....There used to be a little farmA tiny place, remote from harm;There used to be a mother frailAnd sweet, with hair as silver-paleAs the faint moon. She heard me sayThe words when first I learned to pray....Above me in the silent trees,I heard the rustles of the breeze,It sounded like her step, as lightAs dreams across an endless night.My mother—Ah, the name so sweet,Brought memories on noiseless feet,And softly in the darkness, there,I breathed my little childhood prayer....
Do prayers have answers? As I prayedA Presence came, and gently laidA Hand upon my arm. I knewThat Someone kind, and good, and trueWas very near. Upon my soulA peace swept down, and left it whole.I felt a calm steal over me,The same that stilled the troubled seaWhere Jesus walked.My fears were laid,Temptation left me unafraid.And as I smiled, there in the park,A voice spoke through the fragrant dark."Be of good cheer!" the words rang outLike music through the city's shout.And all the lights that I could seeWere stars of home, agleam for me!
I love you, dear....Here, alone in my room tonight, it is all that matters,Out through my window, vaguely hushed, the cityclatters,Telling ever its tale of woe and mirth,Sighing ever its song of death and birth,Singing ever its potent, mad refrain,Swept with tears and the bitter weight of pain.Here in my room I kneel, alone, to pray,But there seems very little, dear, to sayEven to God. So, kneeling by my bed,I think dim thoughts, and dream long dreams instead.Wide-eyed I kneel and watch the candle flame,Making swift shadows on the wall; your nameThrobs in my heart, and makes my pulse to thrill—Wide-eyed I kneel, with soul a-light, untilSomewhere a clock starts chiming.... It islate....Out through the dark wan tenderness and hatePress pale kisses upon the city's lips—Dawn comes creeping, the weary nighttime slipsFurtively by, like some hurt thief with plunder....Dear, I cross to my window, and I wonderWhether you are asleep, or if you lie,Sleepless beneath the smoke-hung purple sky....Down in the streets the tired city vaguely clatters,Here alone in my room I stand, and nothing matters,Only.... I love you!
The stage is set, like a garden,And the lights are flickering and low;And a Romeo with fat legs,Is telling a Juliet with dyed hair and tired,disillusioned eyes,That love—real love—is the only thing in the world.And up in the balcony of the theatreWhere the seats cost twenty-five cents,A slim little girl in a shiny serge frock,And a boy with a wistful mouthAre holding hands.And as they listen, breathlessly, to the studied voiceof the actor,Their fingers are all a-thrill,With the music of the ages.
A dusty, musty little shop set in a dingy street,A doorsill old and scarred and worn by many tiredfeet,A row of cases, vaguely glassed, a safe against thewall,And, oh, the ache of many hearts—the fabric of itall!A violin with broken strings that fingers havecaressed,A diamond-set betrothal ring that lover's lips havepressed,A high shell comb, a spangled fan, a filmy bit of lace,A heart-shaped locket, ribbon-tied, that frames alaughing face.A pair of blankets folded up, an overcoat, a shawl,A tall old clock that might have chimed in somewainscoted hall,And in the farthest corner, where the purple shadowslie,The echo of a woman's sob, the phantom of a sigh.Ah, wedding-rings—a score of them—not many ofthem new,A grim revolver laid beside a baby's tiny shoe,A satin coat, a ragged gown, a gold-clasped book ofverse,A necklace of bedraggled pearls, an empty silverpurse.A dreary weary little shop set in a sunless place.A little shop where love has met with sorrow anddisgrace....A row of cases, double-locked, a safe against the wall;And, oh, the ache of countless hearts that liesbehind it all!
I saw a crocus blooming in the park,I felt a hint of magic in the air,I heard faint music sighing everywhere,And so, as all the world, grew softly dark—I found again the hope that never dies,And hungrily, with out-flung arms, I cameOnce more to you. And when you spoke mynameI read springtime eternal in your eyes!
ROSE PETALS IN THE EARLY RAIN,FORGOTTEN DREAMS,AND A TORN SKETCH BOOK!
There's a li'l empty closet in a li'l empty room,Where th' shadows lie like dust upon th' floor;It uster be HIS closet not s' very long ago—That's why I don't go near it any more.Every li'l hook is empty, 'ceptin' one, an' from ithangs(Th' whitest li'l ghost that ever grewIn a heart that's near ter breakin' with it's agony o'grief! )An empty flannel nightie piped with blue.Jus' a li'l flannel nightie that was shrunken in th'wash,In spots th' blue has ran inter th' white;But I've seen him in it, sleepy, when I tucked th'covers in,An' kissed him, soft, an took away th' light.Jus' a li'l flannel nightie, hangin' empty on a hook,As if it was ashamed—or in disgrace—Jus' a li'l flannel nightie an' it ain't no use no more,But I couldn't bear t' take it from its place!Jus' a li'l empty closet in a li'l empty room,Where th' shadows lie like dust upon th' floor—It uster be his closet, where I'd put his clothes away,That's why I hate ter go there any more.But I've left his li'l nightie hangin' on a single hook,I sorter had ter leave it there, I guess;Ah, that li'l empty closet in that li'l empty roomIs crowded—crowded ful o' loneliness!
I. To A DREAM BABYOh, little child whose face I cannot see,I feel your presence very near tonight,I feel the warmth of you creep close to me...The grey moths drift across the candlelight,And tiny shadows sway across the floor,Like wistful elves who do a fairy dance;The wind is tapping softly at the door,And rain is beating, like a silver lance,Against the tightly curtained window pane.Oh, little child whose face I cannot see,The loneliness, the twilight, and the rain,Have brought your dearness very close to me.And though I rock with empty arms, I singA lullaby that I have made to croonInto your drowsy shadow ear—a songAbout the star sheep and the shepherd moon!
Sleep, little tired eyes, close to the heart of me,Sleep while the sun trembles low in the west;You who are dream of my dreams, and a part ofme—Sleep with your head lying warm on my breast.Dear, there's a land that is filled with red flowers,Poppies, they call them, that sway in the breeze;Sometimes their petals, in soft scarlet showers,Fall in warm drifts that are high as yourknees....Dear, in your dreams you will laugh as you rollthrough them,Waving your arms in an effort to creep;Gently they nod as the wind sings its soul throughthem,Sleep, little tired eyes, sleep....Dear, in this land there's a sky like a feather,Blue in some places, or white as a star;And there's a fragrance—a plant that's called heatherGrows in the spot where the butterflies are.Dear, there are pastures as gay as glad laughter,Dotted with hundreds of woolly white sheep,Dear, you can pat them, for they'll follow afterYou, as you sleep....Dream, little tired eyes, close to the breast of me,Wander in fields where red flowers are gloaming;All of my heart wanders with you, the rest of meWatches your dreaming....
I dreamed your face, one night, when Heaven seemedresting,Against the troubled fever of the earth;I dreamed that vivid throated birds were nesting,In trees that shook with elfin-hearted mirth.I dreamed that star-like purple flowers were springingA-throb with perfume all about the place,And that there was a far-off sound of singing—And then—I dreamed your face!I dreamed your face, and then I waked fromdreaming,(The creeping dawn seemed very cold and bare!)The rising sun seemed pallid in its beaming,Because its coming did not find you there!And I—I rose despondent in the morning,As one whose burning thirst has not been slaked;I dreamed your face, a wonder world adorning,And then—I waked.And so I went upon a quest to find you,A quest that led through many bitter years;I journeyed far with strands of love to bind you,And found, not you, but bitterness and tears—So I returned, discouraged, through the gloaming,My shoulders bowed with weariness unguessed;I came back, unsuccessful, from my roaming—My sorry quest!I had a bit of garden that I tended,It helped me dream, again, my dream of you—It was a joyous place of colors blended—A place where pansies and Sweet William grew.And one bright day I hummed as I was plantingA border row of flowers slim and fair,And raised my eyes to see pale sunlight slantingAcross your hair!
I am myself—you cannot take my dreamsAnd pull the filmy stuff of them apart!I am myself—and life IS what it seems.I am myself, and love is in my heart!You cannot make me think by fast set rule,You cannot laugh beliefs like mine away,Experience MAY be a bitter school,And yet.... The golden sun shines every day,And stars at night lend magic to the sky,And all the world is vividly a-glow,You cannot make me pause to question whyFor we who dare to dream have learned to know!THE WORLD IS RIGHT! There is a friendly OneWho smiles when we have tried to do our part—I will not flinch, my journey's just begun....I AM MYSELF—YOU CANNOT BREAK MY HEART!
God made the rivers, the hills, and the seas,God made the flowers, the grass, and the trees;God made the clouds, and the waves, silver-crested,Then God made the hands of a baby—and rested!How did He make them? Well, nobody knows—Some say He dreamed of the bud of a rose,And that He woke as the dawn swept awayNight in the dancing pink promise of day.Maybe He thought of the light of a star,(That's why He made them as soft as they are!)Maybe He watched while a new butterfly,Light as a sunbeam, went fluttering by.Maybe He walked in a garden, dew-kissed,That's why He made them as frail as the mist—Then as He leaned from His heaven above,God made them strong as His greatest gift—LOVE!God made the mountains—we wonder at these—God made the splendor of sunsets and trees;God made vast mines where a world's wealth is piled,Then God made the hands of a baby—and smiled!
All along the broad highway the little dreams weregrowing,White as hope, and red as life, and bluer than thesea—All along the broad highway I felt their petalsblowing,Like a storm of fragrant snow across the lips ofme!So I danced with joyous heart, and bent above themsinging.So I skipped along the road and smiled into theskies;ALL ALONG THE BROAD HIGHWAY THE LITTLE DREAMS WERESPRINGING,FRAGRANT AS THE DEW OF STARS AND GLAD AS BUTTERFLIES!All along the broad highway I danced and sang unheeding,Till One came with haughty step and traveled bymy side;Traveled first beside my path then, suddenly, wasleading—One who drew me after him and murmured, "I AMPRIDE!"All along the broad highway I hurried, ever faster,Faster through the purple dust that blinded likea mist,Blinded me until I felt that only Pride was master,(And I saw the little dreams through clouds ofamethyst!)All along the broad highway I toiled, no longerglancingAnywhere but straight ahead... I had noheart to sing—All along the broad highway, my feet no longerdancing;Followed I the steps of Pride, and felt the thickdust stingIn the tired eyes of me... the eyes too sad forweeping!Still I struggled—struggled on until quitesuddenly—All the strength that kept me up seemed drowsy,almost sleeping—And I paused with drooping head and lo, Pridewent from me!All along the broad highway the silent dusk wasstealing,Quite alone I stood and stared about me in thegloom;And the voice of me was still, and my heart waskneelingLike a weary pilgrim soul in an attic room.And I stretched my empty hands to where the ghostlylighting,Showed a crumpled mist of blue, a heap of whiteand red—There along the broad highway like armies afterfighting,All the gallant little dreams were lying gaunt anddead!
My mother's kinder chubby—she's fat, th' fellerssay—My mother's kinder chubby, but I like her that a-way!'Cause she's awful sorter jolly, an' she makes th'bestest pies,An' she laughs when I'm a-jokin' 'till th' tears are inher eyes.An' she pats me on th' shoulder when I'm feelin'sad an' blue,An' whispers, "Little feller, yer mother's proud o'you!"She don't wear silks 'at rustle, like Tommie's motherdoes,But I like her gingham better 'cause it's—well, just'cause it's hers!An' she don't look young an' girl-like, an' her handsare sorter red,But, my, they're awful gentle when she tucks youinter bed....She hasn't got a di'mond like th' lady crost th' street,But she's got two great big dimples, an' her smile ismighty sweet!My mother's sorter chubby—but say, her step islight—She's never cross 'r tired—not even when it's night!An' her shoulders JUST as comfy when yer heart isfeelin' sore,When you wish you was a baby—an' not a boy nomore—Oh, her arms are cushion tender at th' twilight timeo' day,Yes—my mother's sorter chubby—But I like her thata-way!
You told me, last night,In a strange and sudden burst of confidence;That a New England ancestor of yours,Had burned witches—And at last I knew....Why your eyes are always so grim,And why your mouth is cut,In a straight line,And why you can never see beauty and mirthIn the sweep of wind over a wheat field,Or in the sunlight on a baby's hair.At last I knewWhy you can never see romanceIn the long gypsie trail,Or magic,In the still purple woods.I knew why life,To you,Was something to be struggled with,Not a glorious adventure;And why death was the end of things,And not the beginning.And I knew at last,Why you could never understand,That tears may cover laughter,And that laughter may be a veilFor tears.You told me, last night,That an ancestor of yours,Had burned witches,And, oh, as I sat in the candlelight,Watching you,I couldn't help wishing,That somewhere behind you, in the shadows,There was another ancestor—A gay cavalier ancestor—Who rode hard,And fought with his sword,And wore his hat, rakishly,On the back of his head,And knew—love.
I had not meant to love again—all that was lost tome,For I had felt love's fear and pain, as well as ecstasy;I closed my heart, and locked the door, and tossedaway the key.All through the winter-time I sat before my flamingfire,And listened to the sleigh-bells chime, and watchedthe flames leap higher,To grasp at shadows, sombre-hued, with fiendish, reddesire.And then mad April came again—I felt the breezesblowing,And I forgot the fear, the pain.... I only knewthat, glowing,In shady nook and garden spot, pale hyacinths weregrowing.And when across the perfumed lea (for nothing coulddefeat him! )My vagrant love crept back to me... I did notmean to greet him;But April opened up my heart, and, oh, I ran tomeet him!
I.The camel tracks led whitely across the desert sand,And one came riding after with furtive mystery;Ah, one came swiftly riding, a dagger in his hand,And he was bent on plunder—a nomad thief was he!He did not heed the starshine that glimmered fromon high,For laden beasts had traveled along the lonely way.He did not see the glory that swept the Eastern sky,For he had far to journey before the dawn of day.He followed through the desert, and then at last hesawAn inn upon the outskirts of some small village place;And there were camels resting before the stabledoor—He left his horse, crept nearer, with greed upon hisface;And peering o'er the threshold, he saw that gold waspiled,With precious stones and incense, before a littleChild.
II.A thief he was by calling, who to the stable came,A thief whose youthful fingers had learned to stealtheir fill;A thief he was who valued his heritage of shame,YET STANDING BY THAT DOORWAY, HE DID NOT WANT TOKILL!A thief he was, but—watching,—he saw a Baby face,And, bending near, a Mother, whose joy was undefiled;And for one breathless moment across the stablespace,The Baby's eyes gazed at him—AND THEN THE BABYSMILED!A thief he was by calling, but there beside the doorHe saw a Holy Vision—he knelt and tried to pray—And something, thrilling, whispered of love forever-more—And then he rose, half weeping—and it was Christmas Day!A thief he was by calling, who felt the Father's plan,But back across the desert there silent rode a man!
III.The years are met as milestones upon a winding road,And some slip by like shadows, and some are fairwith flowers;And some seem dreary, hopeless—a leaden chain ofhours—And some are like a heart-throb, and some a heavyload,The thief, a thief no longer, a lonely figure strodeHeart-weary down life's pathway, through tempestand through showers,But always prayed that somewhere among sweet-scented bowers,A Baby's smile might show him where happinessabode.For he was often hungry—a thief, reformed, musteat—And there were folk who shunned him, and turnedhis plea away;And there were those who scourged him from outthe market place—(They were the ones who told him to earn his breadand meat!)Yet ever he walked onward, and dreamed of somefair dayWhen he would find the Christ-Child with love uponHis face!