What dost thou ponder, Mary, Full of grace,
Thy visitants departed? Dost thou see,
With the clear eyes of thy white purity,
Thy Baby's arms the mighty world embrace?
An artist's gaze may at an easel trace
In faint first lines the masterpiece's power;
E'en so, perchance, dilates thy dwelling-place,
And breaks in perfect bloom thy passion-flower.
Thus, with the soul it is as with the manger,
In work and word the watchers twain are nigh;
Again, the Foster-Father guards from danger,
Again, the Mother-Maid sings lullaby;
True Priest and spotless Bride, that birth they scan,
Immanuel, Eternal God with Man.