Rest on the Flight to Egypt

Somewhere, after christmas,
In silver desert sands
The magi stalk home on
Black arabian steeds;
Somewhere, after a long day
in dirty clothes and
Shivering in the dew
Poor shepherds sleep;
Somewhere, with bloodied pen
Tyrant Herod sends his
Cruel arms through town
Like angels of death...

But here, though blood runs
Elsewhere in the streets
And though it should run
Again in years to come;
Here, but for one hour among
Twelve more, beneath
An olive-drab cherry tree
Three things mingle, perfectly:

Age that smiles as he grasps the wood
Youth motherly inclining her vigin head
And there, before the gazing ass
Sempiternal child, enthroned in time