All night , women would make puddings
And the manger resonated with mother,
A breastful of milk ,a virgin’s kiss for son.
The wind would moan in three trees low
On the hill , in the bleak midwinter snow.
Water turned stone as winter would blow.
(Remembering Christina Rossetti’s Christmas poem “In the Bleak Midwinter” and T. S . Eliot’ s poem Journey of the Magi)