Mary prays: the fire soughs;
Joseph frowns into the blaze.
Too small to be fit to do a thing
But sleep, the infant is just sleeping.
Another day behind them now,
Its worries past. And the “ho ho ho!”
Of Herod who had sent his troops.
And the centuries a day closer too.
That night, as three, they were at peace.
Smoke like a retiring guest Slipped out the door.
There was one far-off
Heavy sigh from the mule. Or the ox.
The star looked in across the threshold.
The only one of them who could
Know the meaning of that
Was the infant. But he did not speak.
Joseph Brodsky (trad. Seamus Heaney).