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 | The Poetical Works of Aubrey De Vere |  |
His hair is grey;
His forehead seamed and weather-worn; his hand
Rough as that desert's tawniest tract; and yet
How tenderly it writes! ‘She sold her gems;
To the poor she gave their price. Her festal robes
She changed for cloak of penitential brown:
One narrow cell to her was paradise:
At night she glided to the Martyrs' tombs;
There knelt in prayer till morning. In that mien
Severity was blithesome, blithesomeness
A thing severe. How tender was that face!
Its paleness meant detachment from this world,
Converse with heaven. Her speech was soft as silence:
Her silence sweet as music.’ Thus he ends:
‘Let her not see this letter: praise disturbs her!
Show it to Pagans.’
His forehead seamed and weather-worn; his hand
Rough as that desert's tawniest tract; and yet
How tenderly it writes! ‘She sold her gems;
To the poor she gave their price. Her festal robes
She changed for cloak of penitential brown:
One narrow cell to her was paradise:
At night she glided to the Martyrs' tombs;
There knelt in prayer till morning. In that mien
Severity was blithesome, blithesomeness
A thing severe. How tender was that face!
Its paleness meant detachment from this world,
Converse with heaven. Her speech was soft as silence:
Her silence sweet as music.’ Thus he ends:
‘Let her not see this letter: praise disturbs her!
Show it to Pagans.’
| The Poetical Works of Aubrey De Vere | |