Poetry Friday: Longfellow at Christmas
Oh, how I love the poetry of Christmas!
The Three Kings
By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Three Kings came riding from far away,
Melchior and Gaspar and Baltasar;
Three Wise Men out of the East were they,
And they travelled by night and they slept by day,
For their guide was a beautiful, wonderful star.
The star was so beautiful, large and clear,
That all the other stars of the sky
Became a white mist in the atmosphere,
And by this they knew that the coming was near
Of the Prince foretold in the prophecy.
Three caskets they bore on their saddle-bows,
Three caskets of gold with golden keys;
Their robes were of crimson silk with rows
Of bells and pomegranates and furbelows,
Their turbans like blossoming almond-trees.
And so the Three Kings rode into the West,
Through the dusk of the night, over hill and dell,
And sometimes they nodded with beard on breast,
And sometimes talked, as they paused to rest,
With the people they met at some wayside well.
“Of the child that is born,” said Baltasar,
“Good people, I pray you, tell us the news;
For we in the East have seen his star,
And have ridden fast, and have ridden far,
To find and worship the King of the Jews.”
And the people answered, “You ask in vain;
We know of no King but Herod the Great!”
They thought the Wise Men were men insane,
As they spurred their horses across the plain,
Like riders in haste, who cannot wait.
And when they came to Jerusalem,
Herod the Great, who had heard this thing,
Sent for the Wise Men and questioned them;
And said, “Go down unto Bethlehem,
And bring me tidings of this new king.”
So they rode away; and the star stood still,
The only one in the grey of morn;
Yes, it stopped –it stood still of its own free will,
Right over Bethlehem on the hill,
The city of David, where Christ was born.
And the Three Kings rode through the gate and the guard,
Through the silent street, till their horses turned
And neighed as they entered the great inn-yard;
But the windows were closed, and the doors were barred,
And only a light in the stable burned.
And cradled there in the scented hay,
In the air made sweet by the breath of kine,
The little child in the manger lay,
The child, that would be king one day
Of a kingdom not human, but divine.
His mother Mary of Nazareth
Sat watching beside his place of rest,
Watching the even flow of his breath,
For the joy of life and the terror of death
Were mingled together in her breast.
They laid their offerings at his feet:
The gold was their tribute to a King,
The frankincense, with its odor sweet,
Was for the Priest, the Paraclete,
The myrrh for the body’s burying.
And the mother wondered and bowed her head,
And sat as still as a statue of stone,
Her heart was troubled yet comforted,
Remembering what the Angel had said
Of an endless reign and of David’s throne.
Then the Kings rode out of the city gate,
With a clatter of hoofs in proud array;
But they went not back to Herod the Great,
For they knew his malice and feared his hate,
And returned to their homes by another way.
Hey, you kids quit playing on that sheet metal!
Mamacita says: It is WINDY tonight. The kind that turns an umbrella inside-out, for those of you who carry umbrellas. Personally, I’d rather drown standing up.
We are NOT rednecks; I swear to you we’re not. We’re fairly refined. We bathe regularly, have all our teeth, and use dictionary words. Thesaurus words, even.
We do, however, have a big pile of corrugated sheet metal in the back yard. It embarrasses me sometimes, because it’s really hard to conceal a big pile of corrugated sheet metal. Nothing affordable in the WalMart spring nursery will cover it up, and a tarp would only make it look worse. Besides, the tarp is spread over the tractor.
Sometimes, though, having a big pile of sheet metal can be a musical experience. I am not talking about the little neighbor boys banging on it with mallets, or the melodic WHAM* we hear as big trees fall on it. I am talking about windy nights, like tonight.
I admit to you now that the sound of this intense wind rushing across the pile of sheet metal in the back yard is every bit as soothing as wind chimes.
And what, you may ask, is a pile of corrugated sheet metal doing in the back yard?
It’s vibrating with the force of the wind, that’s what it’s doing.
Oh, you mean, why is it there in the first place?
I don’t know. I’ve never known. Tim bought it and put it there several years ago, for some kind of project. I don’t think he remembers what it was. If you ask him, he just says “It’s there for a reason.”
The nature of the reason is beyond me.
But when it’s violently windy, like right now, the sheet metal sounds like those huge wind chimes that nobody can afford. I guess that’s as good a reason as any.
I hope this wind doesn’t blow the tarp off the tractor. I hate chasing it down. Rats – there it goes.
*Not to be confused with “Wake me up before you go-go.”
Fifi Says "Thank You," Too.
Mamacita says: She looks pretty good to be 32 years old and full of superglue, doesn’t she.
A few years ago, I thought I would try something new, so I put a twinkly-lights-covered star on top of my tree. It was beautiful, but after a few days, I took it down and hung it from the bannister, down into the landing, and put Fifi back in her rightful place.
Beauty isn’t enough. It never is.
Fifi is supposed to perch on the top of the tree by jamming the tiptop of the tree into the hole underneath her skirt, but I only tried once. It just didn’t feel right to be doing that. I mean, look at that face; I just couldn’t do that. Let’s not go there, okay? Is that a siren I hear?
So now I tie her to the tree with fishing line. Why that makes me feel better, I’m not sure, because one is almost as pervy as the other, but even so.
We found Fifi at a Hallmark store that is no longer there, well after our first married Christmas, for less than half price, which, back then, was just a couple of bucks. I’ve since tried to find other Fifis on Ebay, because it’s the only thing on our tree that my children actually want, but only an idiot would pay that much. Apparently, I’ve got a rarity. Who knew?
Fifi was named by my daughter, who wanted to give our tree-top angel “the most beautiful name in the world.” And so it is.
We’ve been without any cookies in this house for almost a week, which is not like me at all. I’ve got several hours between classes today, though, so guess what. . . .
I’ve spent this afternoon mostly in the kitchen, baking. I’m not artistic, but I am colorful.
Come over, and stay a while. We’ve got lots of cookies and other goodies. Nobody leaves my house hungry.
Dear internet friends, friends who are as dear to me as any friend I’ve actually seen, I hope all of you are happy tonight. I hope your families are together, and everyone is speaking, and that love is ever a part of all your lives, tonight and always.
And, if I may, I want to wish you all a Merry Christmas.
I’ll be saying that several more times until the actual day, you know. I’m a big believer in wishing others well at all times of the year. Those whose belief systems can’t handle being wished well by someone of a different “persuasion” need to memorize the following statement: “Thank you.”
That’s the proper response to someone’s well-wishes. Not an indignant “I DO NOT CELEBRATE OR BELIEVE IN CHRISTMAS AND I’LL THANK YOU NOT TO IMPOSE YOUR BELIEFS ON ME.” No, indignation is not a proper response at all when someone wishes you well.
It’s a simple response, really. “Thank you.” Why is that so hard for some people?
Merry Christmas. “Thank you.”
Happy Hannukah. “Thank you.”
Joyous Solstice. “Thank you.”
Fruitful Kwanzaa. “Thank you.”
Season’s Greetings. “Thank you.
Gleeful Winter Faery und Elfin Tide. “Thank you.”
The gods be with you. “Thank you.”
Pagan good wishes. “Thank you.”
Earth Goddess Tidings. “Thank you.”
See how easy it is? Memorize that response, oh indignant ones, and life just might flow somewhat more easily for you. You’ll be perceived as having class, too. Therefore, suck in your retort and use the good manners your mother tried to teach you. Of course, if your mother is the one who taught you to throw someone’s good wishes back into his or her face and insult them, then your mother is a (insert choice noun here.)
Thank you.
