| Harriet Monroe, ed. (1860–1936). Poetry: A Magazine of Verse. 1912–22. | | | | The Hostage | | By Walter de la Mare |
| | | IN dead of dark to his starry North | |
| Saint Nicholas drew near— | |
| He had ranged the world this wintry night, | |
| His elk-bells jangling clear. | |
| Now bitter-worn with age was he, | 5 |
| And weary of mankind, for few | |
| Had shown him love or courtesy. | |
| |
| His sacks lay empty—all save one; | |
| And this to his affright | |
| Stirred as he stooped with fingers numb, | 10 |
| Ablaze with hoar-frost bright. | |
| Aghast he stood. Showed fumbling thumb, | |
| Small shoulder, a wing—what stowaway | |
| Was this, and whence was ’t come? | |
| |
| And out there crept a lovely Thing— | 15 |
| Half angel and half child: | |
| “I, youngest of all Heaven, am here, to be thy joy,” he smiled. | |
| “O Nicholas, our Master Christ thy grief hath seen; and He | |
| Hath bidden me come to keep His tryst, and bring His love to thee: | |
| To serve thee well, and sing Nowell, and thine own son to be.” | 20 | | | |
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