A SONG OF GIFTS TO GOD
"We say not He has more to gain, but we have more to lose.
Less gold shall go astray, we say, less gold, if thus we choose,
Go to make harlots of the Greeks and hucksters of the Jews.
"Less clouds before colossal feet redden in the underlight,
To the blind gods from Babylon less incense burn to-night,
To the high beasts of Babylon, whose mouths make mock of right."
Babe of the thousand birthdays, we that are young yet grey,
White with the centuries, still can find no better thing to say,
We that with sects and whims and wars have wasted Christmas Day.
Light Thou Thy censer to Thyself, for all our fires are dim,
Stamp Thou Thine image on our coin, for Cæsar's face grows dim,
And a dumb devil of pride and greed has taken hold of him.
