  The mild-eyed Oxen and the gentle Ass, By manger or in pastures that they graze, Lift their slow heads to watch us where we pass, A reminiscent wonder in their gaze. Their low humility is like a crown, A grave distinction they have come to wear,— Their look gone past us—to a little Town, And a white miracle that happened there. An old, old vision haunts those quiet eyes, Where proud remembrance drifts to them again, Of Something that has made them humbly wise, —These burden-bearers for the race of men— And lightens every load they lift or pull, Something that chanced because the Inn was full. |
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