Page:Poems and ballads, third series (IA poemsballadsthir00swin).pdf/108

 Whom our praise dispraises: we Sing, in sooth, but not as he Sang thanksgiving.

Hope that smiled, Seeing her new-born beauty, made Out of heaven's own light and shade, Smiled not half so sweetly: love, Seeing the sun, afar above, Warm the nest that rears the dove, Sees, more bright than moon or sun, All the heaven of heavens in one Little child.

Who may sing her? Wings of angels when they stir Make no music worthy her: