December
AND wherewithal shall Earth he clothed to-day ?
What music will she make, and speak what word,
What beauty have, before unseen, unheard;
How will she stand, and what thing will she say ?
She thinks not of one loveliness of May,
Of any bloom of June, or singing bird,
Of any autumn hue; white-robed, unstirred
By faintest breath, she speeds the light away.
White-robed and voiceless, yet in mead or bough
Never before so beautiful ; pure, still,
A virgin, mindful of her vow,
She chooses well ; fitly will she fulfill
The sacred rite. ’T is dusk ; she sees it now
Once more, — the star upon the Syrian hill.
What music will she make, and speak what word,
What beauty have, before unseen, unheard;
How will she stand, and what thing will she say ?
She thinks not of one loveliness of May,
Of any bloom of June, or singing bird,
Of any autumn hue; white-robed, unstirred
By faintest breath, she speeds the light away.
White-robed and voiceless, yet in mead or bough
Never before so beautiful ; pure, still,
A virgin, mindful of her vow,
She chooses well ; fitly will she fulfill
The sacred rite. ’T is dusk ; she sees it now
Once more, — the star upon the Syrian hill.
John Vance Cheney.