ISSUE: Winter 1952
Now is the virgin with child,
Oh holy my heart in the snow,
There in the ox-stall defiled
Lieth the lily white doe.
Soon to her soft breast she presses,
Oh holy my heart in the snow,
The sweet babe—lovingly dresses
His limbs on the clean-scented mow.
Close is the oxen’s warm breath,
Oh holy my heart in the snow,
Close as the spring and as death
To the saviour sleeping below.