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Phyllis McGinley
Hark! when on hill and dale Hang the night-hushes,
Then sings the nightingale,
Sole among thrushes, she Pours out of shadow Torrents of melody Over the meadow.
While lesser birds devote Nighttimes to slumber Ravishing from her throat Note after joyful note Flows without number.
Why does she shun the day
For dark and danger? Cold in a manger,
Cold in His narrow bed, Wakeful and chilling. Him once she comforted With her sweet trilling;
Sad that a babe should lie So undefended, Sang Him a lullaby Till the night ended, Sang like the Seraphim.
Then spoke His mother, “You brought your song to Him, All the night long to Him, You and no other.
“Lone on your leafy bough, Brave though imperiled, You shall forever now Be the moon's herald.”
When over hill and dale Fall the night-hushes, Then sings the nightingale, Queen among thrushes.
A Wreath of Christmas Legends by Phyllis McGinley Macmillan Publishing Co. Inc., New York |
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