Christmas Hay

Sweet Christmas-hay—More fragrant than the rose

That lights the thorn-bush on a summer hour,

And fairer than the lily, in repose

Lifting her chalice in an Easter-bower—

Nurtured to beauty by the scented rain

On banks that guide the roaring water's run,

The upland, meadow, hill, and rolling plain,

Windblown and ripened by the urgent sun!

Sweet Christmas-hay, my Polish childhood knew,

You cradle in your tangled wisps the white

Unleavened bread, and spread your fragrance through

The mystic silence of the sacred night . . .

While we remember how the Virgin smiled

Beside a hay-filled manger on her child.

—Victoria Janda

Walls of Space, 1945