 | English Roses |  |
IRENE.
Irene stands
Before me (as it seems) in prayer,
With parted lips and lifted brows
And joy of claspt consenting hands;
Which find in hope a happy stayer,
To strengthen vows.
Within her eyes,
That catch the beauty of the morning
And breathe the blessing of the light,
The shadow of the evening lies;
When she shall wear the sweet adorning,
Of perfect sight.
Before me (as it seems) in prayer,
With parted lips and lifted brows
And joy of claspt consenting hands;
Which find in hope a happy stayer,
To strengthen vows.
Within her eyes,
That catch the beauty of the morning
And breathe the blessing of the light,
The shadow of the evening lies;
When she shall wear the sweet adorning,
Of perfect sight.
Irene dwells
In other lands and upper spaces,
And rounded worlds of radiant dreams;
She cannot feel our earthly spells,
Because she follows fairer graces
And distant gleams.
The tidal rush
And roar of common cares and questions
May never move that gentle heart,
Nor wake a single sigh or blush;
She owns no pleasure's fond suggestions,
And lives apart.
In other lands and upper spaces,
And rounded worlds of radiant dreams;
She cannot feel our earthly spells,
Because she follows fairer graces
And distant gleams.
The tidal rush
And roar of common cares and questions
May never move that gentle heart,
Nor wake a single sigh or blush;
She owns no pleasure's fond suggestions,
And lives apart.
97
Irene's home
Is in the suffering lives of others,
Not gilded bubbles that we raise;
And in the sacred temple dome
Of Him who likes to name us brothers,
With simple praise.
They vainly try
To lure from holy service often
That soul, which seeks in bliss above
Her native land eternity;
But then her great eyes dimly soften,
In utter love.
Is in the suffering lives of others,
Not gilded bubbles that we raise;
And in the sacred temple dome
Of Him who likes to name us brothers,
With simple praise.
They vainly try
To lure from holy service often
That soul, which seeks in bliss above
Her native land eternity;
But then her great eyes dimly soften,
In utter love.
Irene waits,
As one who watches for the calling
Of a dear Master who is night;
She heeds no storm or bitter straits
And stoops not to the world's enthralling,
But gazes high.
In rapturous rest
She sees, beyond our cloudy curtain,
Delights that none but angels know;
And gathers to her virgin breast
All sorrows that, with faith uncertain.
Would sink below.
As one who watches for the calling
Of a dear Master who is night;
She heeds no storm or bitter straits
And stoops not to the world's enthralling,
But gazes high.
In rapturous rest
She sees, beyond our cloudy curtain,
Delights that none but angels know;
And gathers to her virgin breast
All sorrows that, with faith uncertain.
Would sink below.
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