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No starry candles lit this festal time,

And round our Twelfth Night table there was none

Who did not mourn a husband, brother, son

Gone in his prime;

Not with the customary pomp of death,

With sick-bed ritual and flickering breath,

But like the blossom of tempestuous May,

In one night swept away;

And of its radiance no memorial seen

Beyond the empty place where it had been.

So we stand sorrow-laden at the feast,

Where wisdom knelt in homage to a Child,

And three world-weary pilgrims from the East

Laid at His feet

Gold, and a healing balm, and odours sweet.

We too must being our offering, pay the price

To gain the goal of sacramental peace

Where doubts dissolve, insurgent longings cease,

And sorrow is sublimed in sacrifice.