The Burning Babe
As I in hoarie Winters night stoode shivering in the snow,
Surpris'd I was with sodaine heate, which made my hart to glow;
And lifting up a fearefull eye, to view what fire was neare,
A pretty Babe all burning bright did in the ayre appeare;
Who scorched with excessive heate, such floods of teares did shed,
As though his floods should quench his flames, which with his teares
were fed:
Alas (quoth he) but newly borne, in fierie heates I frie,
Yet none approach to warme their harts or feele my fire, but I;
My faultlesse breast the furnace is, the fuell wounding thornes:
Love is the fire, and sighs the smoake, the ashes, shame and
scornes;
The fewell Justice layeth on, and Mercie blowes the coales,
The mettall in this furnace wrought, are mens defiled soules:
For which, as now on fire I am to worke them to their good,
So will I melt into a bath, to wash them in my blood.
With this he vanisht out of sight, and swiftly shrunk away,
And straight I called unto minde, that it was Christmasse day.
Robert Southwell S.J. (1602)
This is one of my favorite Christmas poems. It's kind of creepy and moving at the same time. Poetry, especially the old kind, is one of my favorite things to read. But it's a lonely taste as I meet so few people who really like poetry. I ask almost everyone I know at some point. I don't read it like an academic. I read it like I watch exciting movies, with the design to be entertained first. I don't study them particularly or try to wring every bit of hidden knowledge from them. I enjoy their meanderings and surprises and cleverness.
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