Edna St. Vincent Millay

Sonnet 68

To Jesus on His Birthday   
For this your mother sweated in the cold, For this you bled upon the bitter tree: A yard of tinsel ribbon bought and sold; A paper wreath; a day at home for me. The merry bells ring out, the people kneel; Up goes the man of God before the crowd; With voice of honey and with eyes of steel He drones your humble gospel to the proud. Nobody listens. Less than the wind that blows Are all your words to us you died to save. O Prince of Peace! O Sharon's dewy Rose! How mute you lie within your vaulted grave. The stone the angel rolled away with tears Is back upon your mouth these thousand years.