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272

THORNS AND THE ROSE

They celebrate the birth of grief's pale King to-morrow
And crown him with their crown of immemorial sorrow,
Their brown keen points of thorn.
They sing, “To us to-day within the city of David
A holy soul is given whereby the world is savéd:
To us a child is born!”
I look back, and I think of summer upon the ocean
And long cream-crested lines of gentle waves in motion
And limbs of white repose
Rising therefrom: of Love the very world's creator
Born at the dawn of things, crowned even by souls who hate her,—
Crowned not with thorn-points,—with the illimitable rose.
Christmas Eve, 1882