
We pictured the meek mild creatures where They dwelt in their strawy pen, Nor did it occur to one of us there To doubt they were kneeling then.
So fair a fancy few would weave In these years! Yet, I feel, If someone said on Christmas Eve, Come; see the oxen kneel
In the lonely barton by yonder coomb Our childhood used to know, I should go with him in the gloom, Hoping it might be so.