The trees were sugared like wedding-cake
With a bright hoar frost, with a very cold snow,
When we went begging for Jesus' sake,
Penniless children, years ago.
Diamond weatherbut nothing to eat
In that fine, bleak bubble of earth and skies.
Nothing alive in the windy street
But two young children with hungry eyes.
"We must go begging or we will die.
I would sell my soul for an apple-core!"
So we went mendicant, you and I,
Knock-knock-knock at each snow-choked door.
Knock-knock-knock till our fingers froze.
Nobody even replied, "Good day!",
Only the magistrate, toasting his toes,
Howled at us sleepily, "Go away!"
"Rosemary dear, what shall we do?"
"Stephen, I know not. Beseech some saint!
My nose has turned to an icicle blue,
And my belly within me is very faint."
"If there be saints, they are fast asleep,
Lounging in Heaven, in wraps of feather."
"Talk not so, or my eyes will weep
Till the ice-tears rattle and clink together."
"Saints are manyon which shall I call?
He must be kindly, without constraint."
"I think you had better pray to Saint Paul.
I have heard people call him a neighborly saint."
Down he flopped on his cold, bare knees
Breath that smoked in the bitter air
Crossing his body with hands afreeze,
He sought Saint Paul in a vehement prayer.
Scarce had these shiverers piped, "Amen,"
Cheeping like fledglings, crying for bread,
When good Saint Paul appeared to them then,
With a wide gold halo around his head.
He waved his episcopal hand, and smiled,
And the ground was spread like a banquet-table!
"Here is much good food for each hungry child,
And I hope you will eat as long as you're able.
"Here are good, thick cloaks for your ragged backs,
And strong, warm boots for your feet," said he,
"And for Stephen, gloves and a little axe,
And a little fur muff for Rosemary."
They thanked him humbly, saying a Pater,
Before they had touched a morsel even,
But he said, "Your thanks are for One far greater"
And pointed his right arm up at Heaven.
"For you are the sparrows around God's door,
He will lift you up like His own great banner.
But the folk who made you suffer so sore
He shall deal with them in another manner.
"It is His own will to transport those folk
To a region of infinite ice and snow."
And his breath was a taper of incense-smoke,
And he lifted a finger and it was so.
And the folk were gone and the saint was fled
And we stared and stared at the wintry land.
And in front of us there was a banquet spread.
And a little fur muff on Rosemary's hand.
