The lengthening shadows of the cedar trees Have blended into twilight, and the sun Has plunged in glorious gold precipitance Beyond the dim crest of the western hills, Bearing with it the day’s disquietudes; And now the stars, that lamp the feet of God, Are lighted, and night’s purple silences Steal gently round me fraught with memories. ’Twas such an hour as this—long, long ago Yet seeming yesterday—he came to me, My little son, in joyous travail born Out there across the hills in Bethlehem, Where we who journeyed southward to be taxed— Strangers in our own father’s land—had found No shelter in the crowded khan, and shared, Perforce, a grotto with the stabled kine. Ah, how it all comes back again to me! The courtyard, in the flickering torchlight, filled With huddled trav’lers sleeping ’neath the sky, The kneeling camels of a caravan, The patient asses dozing by the wall, A smell of roasting meat at little fires, The shouts of melon-sellers, the low drone Of reverend elders bending at their prayers, Barking of street-dogs, porters’ blasphemies, The laughter of a girl, the mellow flute Of some rapt lover, and the tinkling tune Of sheep-bells forward moving through the dark. And then the hour supreme, wherein my soul Clomb the dark pinnacles of pain, and death Grappled with life through whirling aeoned years, But fled at length and left the Miracle. They laid him there beside me on the hay, A wee pink being in his world’s first sleep; My arm was round about him and his breath Was warm with life on my exultant breast, And they whose winged watch is set to keep Ward in the valley lands of heaven looked down, Not up, that night to find their paradise. All weak with labor and soul’s happiness, I lay beneath the sapphire tent of skies, And in my heart I made a little prayer Of thanks that flew up to the throne of God On swift dove pinions of unuttered song; And as I prayed, lo, upon loops of stars Night’s velvet curtainings were lifted up, A wondrous light turned all the world to rose, And down the skies swept singing seraphim In mighty echoes of my little prayer. Oh, can it be that threescore years have marched In troubled caravan across the waste Of desert life since then, and can it be That I, who sit here in mine eventide, White with the snows of sorrow and of time, Was once a bright tressed girl who heard the choirs Of heaven rejoice that she had borne a son? Why, I can feel that little heart beat still Close to my own, the touch of little hands Warm and caressing on this withered breast; Still I can hear the first low wail that marked His woe’s beginning and the tortured path That he should tread in mighty gentleness, With pain and anguish, ’til his love supreme And terrible meekness, overcoming death, Should lead him conqueror to sit with God, Pleading for sinful men in paradise. Today I stole into the synagogue And heard a rabbi read the sacred scroll: How that my lord, Isaiah, said of old, Thy Maker is thy husband, he hath called thee As a forsaken woman, spirit grieved; God, for a little moment, hides his face From thee, but with his loving kindness soon And tender mercies shall he gather thee. Then was I comforted, and peace displaced The turmoil in my heart, and minded me Of that great promise Gabriel bore from God And the immeasurable fruitage of his word, The life and death and glory of my son. So in the shades of life and night I sit, Under the sheltering arbor of the dark That curves above, vined o’er with trellised stars, Waiting my spirit bridegroom, and the sound Of that loved voice—long silent save in dreams— Calling across the vibrant firmament, O Mary, Mother Mary, come to Me.
This poem is from ’Prentice Songs (Pittsburgh: Aldine Press, 1913) and is in the public domain.
George Mahaffey Patterson (M. P.) Baird (1887–1970) was a lifelong resident of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, who worked in theater and city government. He graduated from the University of Pittsburgh in 1909 and then taught in the Department of English as a professor of theater history and production. He formed the student group the Pitt Players, financing, writing, and directing several of their early plays. While on the faculty, he also locally published three collections of poetry: ’Prentice Songs (1913), Loaves for Hyacinths (1914), and Rune and Rann (1916). In 1917 Baird joined the US Army, serving as a lieutenant in the Sanitary Corps during World War I. Upon his return to civilian life he began a career in government service for the city of Pittsburgh, serving as executive secretary of the Art Commission and chief examiner and later president of the Civil Service Commission. He was senior research analyst for the Department of City Planning when he retired in 1961.
Art & Theology 