Explore "The Inn of the Star" by Helen Gray Cone on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
When the Old Year plods down / Toward the end of the hill, / Where the white little town / Lies asleep, wonder-still, / Then he mends his dull pace, / For a ray, streaming far, / Strikes a gleam on his face / From the Inn of the Star.
Then the staff is set by, / And the shoon from his feet, / And the burden let lie, / And he sitteth at meat; / Old jests round the board, / Old songs round the blaze, / While the faint bells accord / Like the souls of old days.
In the sweet bed of peace / He shall sleep for a night, / And faith, like a fleece, / Lap him kindly and light; / Then the wind, crooning wild, / Mystic music shall seem, / And the brow of the Child / Be a light through his dream.
And we, too, follow down / The long slope of the hill: / See, the white little town, / Where it shines, wonder-still! / Be our hopes quenched or bright, / Be our griefs what they are, / We shall sojourn a night / At the Inn of the Star.