The Germ: Thoughts towards Nature in Poetry, Literature and Art. Various

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      She fell asleep on Christmas Eve.

      Upon her eyes' most patient calms

      The lids were shut; her uplaid arms

      Covered her bosom, I believe.

      Our mother, who had leaned all day

      Over the bed from chime to chime,

      Then raised herself for the first time,

      And as she sat her down, did pray.

      Her little work-table was spread

      With work to finish. For the glare

      Made by her candle, she had care

      To work some distance from the bed.

      Without, there was a good moon up,

      Which left its shadows far within;

      The depth of light that it was in

      Seemed hollow like an altar-cup.

      Through the small room, with subtle sound

      Of flame, by vents the fireshine drove

      And reddened. In its dim alcove

      The mirror shed a clearness round.

      I had been sitting up some nights,

      And my tir'd mind felt weak and blank;

      Like a sharp strengthening wine, it drank

      The stillness and the broken lights.

      Silence was speaking at my side

      With an exceedingly clear voice:

      I knew the calm as of a choice

      Made in God for me, to abide.

      I said, “Full knowledge does not grieve:

      This which upon my spirit dwells

      Perhaps would have been sorrow else:

      But I am glad 'tis Christmas Eve.”

      Twelve struck. That sound, which all the years

      Hear in each hour, crept off; and then

      The ruffled silence spread again,

      Like water that a pebble stirs.

      Our mother rose from where she sat.

      Her needles, as she laid them down,

      Met lightly, and her silken gown

      Settled: no other noise than that.

      “Glory unto the Newly Born!”

      So, as said angels, she did say;

      Because we were in Christmas-day,

      Though it would still be long till dawn.

      She stood a moment with her hands

      Kept in each other, praying much;

      A moment that the soul may touch

      But the heart only understands.

      Almost unwittingly, my mind

      Repeated her words after her;

      Perhaps tho' my lips did not stir;

      It was scarce thought, or cause assign'd.

      Just then in the room over us

      There was a pushing back of chairs,

      As some who had sat unawares

      So late, now heard the hour, and rose.

      Anxious, with softly stepping haste,

      Our mother went where Margaret lay,

      Fearing the sounds o'erhead—should they

      Have broken her long-watched for rest!

      She stooped an instant, calm, and turned;

      But suddenly turned back again;

      And all her features seemed in pain

      With woe, and her eyes gazed and yearned.

      For my part, I but hid my face,

      And held my breath, and spake no word:

      There was none spoken; but I heard

      The silence for a little space.

      My mother bowed herself and wept.

      And both my arms fell, and I said:

      “God knows I knew that she was dead.”

      And there, all white, my sister slept.

      Then kneeling, upon Christmas morn

      A little after twelve o'clock

      We said, ere the first quarter struck,

      “Christ's blessing on the newly born!”