A Belgian Christmas

The "happy year" of 1914     An hour from dawn:     The snow sweeps on     As it swept with sleet last night:     The Earth around     Breathes never a sound,     Wrapped in its shroud of white.     A waked cock crows     Under the snows;     Then silence. After while     The sky grows blue,     And a star looks through     With a kind o' bitter smile.     A whining dog;     An axe on a log,     And a muffled voice that calls:     A cow's long low;     Then footsteps slow     Stamping into the stalls.     A bed of straw     Where the wind blows raw     Through cracks of the stable door:     A child's small cry,     A voice nearby,     That says, "One mouth the more."     A different note     In a man's rough throat     As he turns at an entering tread     Satyrs! see!     "My woman she     Was brought last night to bed!"     A cry of"Halt!"     "Ach! ich bin kalt!"     "A spy!""No.""That is clear!     There's a good shake-down     I' the jail in town     For her!" And then, "My orders here."     A shot, sharp-rolled     As the clouds unfold:     A scream; and a cry forlorn...     Clothed red with fire,     Like the Heart's Desire,     Look down the Christmas Morn.     The babe with light     Is haloed bright,     And it is Christmas Day:     A cry of woe;     Then footsteps slow,     And the wild guns, far away.