Poems

Here in the cloister they who seek discover

A wandered fragment of the Christmas silence

That hid itself from the disquieted earth:

The silence of the Virgin bending over

The little Uncreated Innocence

Upon the bed of a most hidden birth,

The silence that was Joseph's sacrament

Through years that were a threshold to this hour

And which was seed and stem to the white flower

That blossomed on his rod,

The speechlessness of the unlettered shepherds

Who stood amazed before the Lamb of God.

The angels sang at Christmas, but their music

Was like a stillness to the inner ear,

And soft as petals from a shaken bough.

They who go walking in the Christmas silence

Through any season of the changing year

Come to a Man with peace upon his brow

And see the Mother and the Infant near.

This house, as once the Saint of Alcantara

Said of Teresa's, is the little hospice

Of Bethlehem.

Cloister or cave- its solitudes shall be

The dwelling of a human trinity

And they who enter learn a wordless language

Let the door be open wide

And no blind be down at all,

For maybe she'd be walking

With the child within her shawl;

And how could we be bearing

The weight of shame and sin,

If she'd pass upon the roadway

With no light to guide her in?

Let the chair be readied now,

And the fire kept burning bright;

For sorely she'll be needing

The rest and warmth this night.

The rushes too be spreading

Upon the earthen floor,

To make it sweet and wholesome

Her blessed feet before.

Full oft I've heard the story

How once this night were known

To rest within a shieling

Three strangers meek and lone;

But dawn did yield no tidings

Of man, or maid, or child:

T'was Joseph's self was in it,

And Christ, and Mary mild.

So set the candles burning

Upon each window high,

And leave the door wide open

To guide their footsteps nigh:

Right warmly they'll be welcome

To share our hearth-fire bright-

For Mary's sake in heaven-

Who walk the wilds this night.