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 | The Poems of Richard Watson Gilder |  |
A NAME
Many the names, the souls, the faces dearThat I have longed to frame in verse sincere;
But one high name, sweet soul, and face of love
Seemed ever my poor art, O, far above.
Like Mary's, stricken with sorrow was that face;
Like hers it wore a most majestic grace.
That soul was tender as the sunset sky,
And full of lofty dream her days went by;
That name—than God's alone there is no other
Holy as thine to me, O sacred Mother!
| The Poems of Richard Watson Gilder | |