 | Louise de la Valliaere and other poems |  |
15
MY LADY.
A PORTRAIT.
She, my sweet, pale lady, goeth down
Through the grey streets of the wicked town,
And her steadfast face a shadow hath
For the sin and pain about her path.
Through the grey streets of the wicked town,
And her steadfast face a shadow hath
For the sin and pain about her path.
By the side of her go angels three,
Love, and tenderness, and purity,
Folding her about with mighty wings;
In her heart she hears their whisperings.
Love, and tenderness, and purity,
Folding her about with mighty wings;
In her heart she hears their whisperings.
Her soft golden hair is streaked with grey,
“Peace!” her grave eyes and her sweet lips say;
Earthly lover's love she shall not miss,
For the dear Lord her true lover is.
“Peace!” her grave eyes and her sweet lips say;
Earthly lover's love she shall not miss,
For the dear Lord her true lover is.
16
Her small hands have healing in their touch;
As she goes where some hearts suffer much,
She brings balm and light, this comforter,
And sick eyes grow glad at sight of her.
As she goes where some hearts suffer much,
She brings balm and light, this comforter,
And sick eyes grow glad at sight of her.
Oft a fevered child hath found sweet rest,
Crooned to wholesome slumber on her breast,
Its last waking thought, with hot hands weak
Just to dumbly stroke her pallid cheek.
Crooned to wholesome slumber on her breast,
Its last waking thought, with hot hands weak
Just to dumbly stroke her pallid cheek.
And she kneels beside a dying bed,
Her fair arms support a weary head,
While the wan lips “babble of green fields,”
Her soft fingers' touch sweet comfort yields.
Her fair arms support a weary head,
While the wan lips “babble of green fields,”
Her soft fingers' touch sweet comfort yields.
Down she bends, and murmurs tenderly
To the poor soul drifting out to sea,
How across the weary waste of death,
Seeking His own sheep that wandereth,
To the poor soul drifting out to sea,
How across the weary waste of death,
Seeking His own sheep that wandereth,
The dear blessed Jesus comes apace,
With the love and welcome on His face—
Seeing it, shall very gladly come
On His shoulders fair to bring it home.
With the love and welcome on His face—
Seeing it, shall very gladly come
On His shoulders fair to bring it home.
17
So she speaks, till enters the dark room
One, whose eyes eternal light the gloom,
Grey as the faint dawn each mighty wing,
And his fair face wondrous pitying.
One, whose eyes eternal light the gloom,
Grey as the faint dawn each mighty wing,
And his fair face wondrous pitying.
He shall stoop, and to the sick one say:
“Come with me, and put thy grief away,”
Who shall straightway go, while reft hearts weep
O'er a dead face smiling in its sleep.
“Come with me, and put thy grief away,”
Who shall straightway go, while reft hearts weep
O'er a dead face smiling in its sleep.
Sometimes for a baby, soft and cold,
Still small face 'neath clinging rings of gold,
Like a little wounded singing-bird,
Whose sweet song shall never more be heard.
Still small face 'neath clinging rings of gold,
Like a little wounded singing-bird,
Whose sweet song shall never more be heard.
She hath wept her heart out wearily,
She, the mother that shall never be;
Kissed the little feet, grown tired of play,
That had wandered far since yesterday;
She, the mother that shall never be;
Kissed the little feet, grown tired of play,
That had wandered far since yesterday;
Closed the dead blue eyes that understand,
Laid wan blooms in each small waxen hand
That hath plucked the asphodel for prize
In the shining fields of paradise.
Laid wan blooms in each small waxen hand
That hath plucked the asphodel for prize
In the shining fields of paradise.
18
Where the ways of sin are dark and dim,
Her Lord tells her what to say for Him;
She, my saint! in spotless robes of white,
Lifts the sinner to her own heart's height.
Her Lord tells her what to say for Him;
She, my saint! in spotless robes of white,
Lifts the sinner to her own heart's height.
Little children hail her coming sweet,
God's dear dumb things gather round her feet;
The poor heart that bitter trouble sears,
Melts at her soft words in healing tears.
God's dear dumb things gather round her feet;
The poor heart that bitter trouble sears,
Melts at her soft words in healing tears.
As she goes, she sets no hearts astir,
Yet I think the sunshine follows her,
Resting on her broad brows, loving-wise,
And her wistful mouth, and brave grey eyes.
Yet I think the sunshine follows her,
Resting on her broad brows, loving-wise,
And her wistful mouth, and brave grey eyes.
| Louise de la Valliaere and other poems | |