The things she knew, let her forget again
The voices in the sky, the fear, the cold
The gaping shepherds, and the queer old men
Piling their clumsy gifts of foreign gold

Let her have laughter with her little one
Teach her the endless, tuneless songs to sing
Grant her her right to whisper to her son
The foolish names one dare not call a king

Keep from her dreams the rumble of a crowd
The smell of rough-cut wood, the trail of red
The thick and chilly whiteness of the shroud
That wraps the strange new body of the dead

Ah, let her go, kind Lord, where mothers go
And boast his pretty words and ways, and plan
The proud and happy years that they shall know
Together, when her son is grown a man