I.

O Virginal mother of men, in whose fathomless eyes-- Soft eyes too familiar with tears, Past sorrow and faith in the future both wistfully wait The gladness that comes with the years! Asleep on your breast and content, that futurity lies, Nor frets nor frowns at its fate. While half to yourself and half to your baby you sing The story undying miraculous Christmases bring:

"There came three kings from far away, from far away, from far away, And o'er the crib of Bethlehem their guiding star its course did stay. Along the road beneath that star the way ahead like silver shone: So came they to the King of kings and poured their gifts before His throne."