Walter de la Mare

IN dead of dark to his starry North

Saint Nicholas drew near—

He had ranged the world this wintry night,

His elk-bells jangling clear.

Now bitter-worn with age was he,

And weary of mankind, for few

Had shown him love or courtesy.

His sacks lay empty—all save one;

And this to his affright

Stirred as he stooped with fingers numb,

Ablaze with hoar-frost bright.

Aghast he stood. Showed fumbling thumb,

Small shoulder, a wing—what stowaway

Was this, and whence was ’t come?

And out there crept a lovely Thing—

Half angel and half child:

“I, youngest of all Heaven, am here, to be thy joy,” he smiled.

“O Nicholas, our Master Christ thy grief hath seen; and He

Hath bidden me come to keep His tryst, and bring His love to thee:

To serve thee well, and sing Nowell, and thine own son to be.”