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Phyllis McGinley
The owl that hunts A shadowy prey
Loved
morning, once,
Like his
sun-striding
Till Wise Men
riding
To bear the Word
Of Bethlehem, To follow them.
“You,
feathery nations,
From sleep, like arrows, All arose – Doves, linnets, sparrows, Cackling crows.
Faithfully through The heron flew, Flew meadowlark,
Chanting in wild Ecstatic chorus, “A kingly Child Is waiting for us.”
Fled every fowl, Forsaking rest. Only the owl On his warm nest,
Grudging to see Finch pass, and swallow, Croaked, "Who is He That bids me follow,
“Who? Who?” he muttered, Loath to fly. “Who, who?” and shuttered His round eye,
Nor left his bough Nor saw the glory. And penitent now (So runs the story),
Nightly must mourn, “Who’ll guide me to The small Newborn? Who, who? Oh, who?”
Must for distress Stay broad awake And comfortless, That would not break His comfort for Love’s sake.
A Wreath of Christmas Legends by Phyllis McGinley Macmillan Publishing Co. Inc., New York |
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Midi: Do You Hear What I Hear?
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