 | The poems of Richard Henry Stoddard |  |
[The carver thought, the carver wrought]
The carver thought, the carver wrought,
There was a rapture in his mood;
He saw Our Lady in his thought,
And wrought upon the sandal wood.
His hand would not obey his will,
It faltered and forgot its skill.
“No one will say who sees that face,
‘Hail, Mary Mother, full of grace!’”
There was a rapture in his mood;
He saw Our Lady in his thought,
And wrought upon the sandal wood.
His hand would not obey his will,
It faltered and forgot its skill.
“No one will say who sees that face,
‘Hail, Mary Mother, full of grace!’”
He dropped his tools, he bowed his head,
He heard a voice that somewhere spoke:
“Go, burn the sandal-wood,” it said,
“And work upon that block of oak.
What one holds not the other may,
The image may be there to-day.”
It was, and all who saw her face
Said, “Mary Mother, full of grace!”
He heard a voice that somewhere spoke:
“Go, burn the sandal-wood,” it said,
“And work upon that block of oak.
What one holds not the other may,
The image may be there to-day.”
It was, and all who saw her face
Said, “Mary Mother, full of grace!”
| The poems of Richard Henry Stoddard | |