 |
 | 1. |
| 2. |
| 3. |
| 4. |
| 5. |
| 6. |
| 1. |
| 2. |
| 3. |
| 4. |
| 5. |
| 6. |
| 7. |
| 8. |
| 9. |
| 10. |
| 11. |
| 12. |
| 13. |
| 14. |
| 15. |
| 16. |
|
| 17. |
 | The poems of Trumbull Stickney |  |
187
[XX
As pilgrims, when the ways of winter ope]
As pilgrims, when the ways of winter ope,Would fain behold the places where they prayed
Alive with violets and new with shade,
And, where they knelt, a golden buttercup:
So strains within my soul a wandering hope
To see how brightly now are rearrayed
The stations where I saw her, and, afraid,
My kneeling life was lost and carried up—
A thing that in the praise of vanishing
Did like an incense for a moment's space,
Burning itself away from what it was,
Outsoar the elevation and outsing
The choirs of glory, while with fragrant wing
It veiling passed before Madonna's face.
| The poems of Trumbull Stickney | |