  THE light was low in the school-room; The day before Christmas day Had ended. It was darkening in the garden Where the Silent Children play. Throughout that House of Pity, The soundless lessons said, The noiseless sport suspended, The voiceless tasks all read, The little deaf-mute children, As still as still could be, Gathered about the master, Sensitive, swift to see, With their fine attentive fingers And their wonderful, watchful eyes— What dumb joy he would bring them For the Christmas eve's surprise! The lights blazed out in the school-room The play-ground went dark as death; The master moved in a halo; The children held their breath: "I show you now a wonder— The audiphone," he said. He spoke in their silent language, Like the language of the dead. And answering spake the children, As the dead might answer too: "But what for us, O master? This may be good for you; "But how is our Christmas coming Out of a wise machine? For not like other children's Have our happy hours been; "And not like other children's Can they now or ever be!" But the master smiled through the halo: "Just trust a mystery, Then to the waiting marvel The listening children leant: Like listeners, the shadows Across the school-room bent, O my children, for a little, As those who suffer must! Great 'tis to bear denial, But grand it is to trust." While Science, from her silence Of twice three thousand years, Gave her late salutation To sealed human ears. 0012m
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