Methinks the Blesséd was content, her journey overpast,
Amid the drowsy, wondering kine on lowly bed to lie:
To dream in pensive thankfulness, and happy days forecast,
While over her the Star of Hope waxed brighter in the sky.
And yet, methinks in Bethlehem her spirit had been lone
But for the tender new-born joy that in her arms she bore,—
Ay, even though with gifts of gold and many a precious stone
Great kings had knelt with shepherd-folk about her stable door.
But every mortal mother's heart knows its Gethsemane—
That lonelier spot whereto no star the light of hope may bring—
Yet even in the darkest hour, amidst her agony,
Each still remembers Bethlehem, and hears the angels sing.