A poem by W R Rodgers:Deep in the fading leaves of nightThere lay the flower that darkness knows,Till winter stripped and brought to lightThe most incomparable RoseThat blows, that blows.
The flashing mirrors of the snow
Keep turning and returning still:
To see the lovely child below
And hold him is their only will;
Keep still, keep still.
And to let go his very cry
The clinging echoes are so slow
That still his wail they multiply
Though he lies singing now below,
So low, so low.
Even the doves forget to grieve
And gravely to his greeting fly
And the lone places that they leave
All follow and are standing by
On high, on high.
