Classic Poem

She carried frankincense and gold
When the Star guided her,
And in her folded hands so cold
She carried myrrh.

Frankincense for the praise she owed,
Gold for her gift was meet,
But myrrh because so oft her road
Was bitter-sweet.

Lay her tired body in that earth
Was holy to her mind!
But the bird-soul flies in high mirth,
Borne on the wind.

It tosses in the Irish skies
Awhile, so small and white,
Ere it is gone -- swiftly it flies
Into the light.

She has gone in with the Three Kings,
In silk and miniver;
The gold, the frankincense she brings,
The sharp-sweet myrrh.