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 | The Poetical Works of Aubrey De Vere |  |
My lips are parched:
How fresh that water! Thanks! Holiest and best
Of all those holy ones to me so dear
Thy father's mother was—that earlier Paula:
Beside a daughter's grave I saw her first:
The trials others shunned to her grew dear;
They brought her near the Man of Woes. Her mind
Was all of ardours and of soarings made,
Winged like the Greek; unlike it soft and sacred:
Greek she knew well; Hebrew she learned ere long:
She thirsted for that land the Saviour trod
And thither fled. From North to South she tried it,
Then chose this site and here her convents raised:
She ruled them twenty years, then slept in Christ.
In death she lay as one restored to youth
The while close by great Prelates of the East
Bishops and priests chanted her requiem psalms,
And o'er the bier one black-robed mourner lay;
Her lips were on her mother's brow, her face
Hid on that mother's bosom.
How fresh that water! Thanks! Holiest and best
Of all those holy ones to me so dear
Thy father's mother was—that earlier Paula:
Beside a daughter's grave I saw her first:
The trials others shunned to her grew dear;
They brought her near the Man of Woes. Her mind
Was all of ardours and of soarings made,
Winged like the Greek; unlike it soft and sacred:
Greek she knew well; Hebrew she learned ere long:
She thirsted for that land the Saviour trod
And thither fled. From North to South she tried it,
Then chose this site and here her convents raised:
She ruled them twenty years, then slept in Christ.
In death she lay as one restored to youth
The while close by great Prelates of the East
Bishops and priests chanted her requiem psalms,
And o'er the bier one black-robed mourner lay;
Her lips were on her mother's brow, her face
Hid on that mother's bosom.
| The Poetical Works of Aubrey De Vere | |