midnight
hush ! -- that whisper , - `` Where is Mary 's boy ? '' O weary hour ! O aching days that passed Filled with strange fears , each wilder than the last : The soldier 's lance , -- the fierce centurion 's sword , The crushing wheels that whirl some Roman lord , The midnight crypt that suck 's the captive 's breath , The blistering sun on Hinnom 's vale of death ! Thrice on his cheek had rained the morning light , Thrice on his lips the mildewed kiss of night , Crouched by some porphyry column 's shining plinth , Or stretched beneath the odorous terebinth . At last , in desperate mood , they sought once more The Temple 's porches , searched in vain before ; They found him seated with the ancient men , The grim old rufflers of the tongue and pen , Their bald heads glistening as they clustered near ; Their gray beards slanting as they turned to hear , Lost in half-envious wonder and surprise That lips so fresh should utter words so wise . And Mary said , -- as one who , tried too long , Tells all her grief and half her sense of wrong , `` What is this thoughtless thing which thou hast done ?