 | The hours of the passion and other poems |  |
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A PORTRAIT
Feeling no want within her heart.
Having obeyed the Bridegroom's call,
Chosen in youth the better part,
Handmaiden of the Lord of all;
By strange, inviolate sanctity
Engirt, as by a cloister wall.
Having obeyed the Bridegroom's call,
Chosen in youth the better part,
Handmaiden of the Lord of all;
By strange, inviolate sanctity
Engirt, as by a cloister wall.
Too virginal, too exquisite,
For any earthbound destiny,
For man's despoiling or delight;
Around her maiden footsteps free
Cluster and crowd the roses white
To crown her gentle majesty.
For any earthbound destiny,
For man's despoiling or delight;
Around her maiden footsteps free
Cluster and crowd the roses white
To crown her gentle majesty.
She goes her way from morn till eve,
Marking each hour with service sweet;
For one so fashioned of rose-leaves
Hard service often and unmeet;
Waiting on every want that grieves
With angel's voice, and hands, and feet.
Marking each hour with service sweet;
For one so fashioned of rose-leaves
Hard service often and unmeet;
Waiting on every want that grieves
With angel's voice, and hands, and feet.
She comes and goes, but when she comes,
The Spring comes with her on her way;
Because that heavenly smile of hers,
That child's smile, wakes a holy-day
Of grass, and dews, and songs of birds,
O May flower that wast born in May!
The Spring comes with her on her way;
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That child's smile, wakes a holy-day
Of grass, and dews, and songs of birds,
O May flower that wast born in May!
The morning music of her voice
Rings from a garden long ago
Transplanted, yet its bloom and scent
The hearts of those that know her know;
And darkness turns to dawn, to hear
Her footstep on the path below.
Rings from a garden long ago
Transplanted, yet its bloom and scent
The hearts of those that know her know;
And darkness turns to dawn, to hear
Her footstep on the path below.
Bearing some cup of life's delight
To lips most suffering and most sad;
And still, though narrow is the way,
Moving in gladness that makes glad:
Yet always last, and least, and lowest,
Everything given, and nothing had.
To lips most suffering and most sad;
And still, though narrow is the way,
Moving in gladness that makes glad:
Yet always last, and least, and lowest,
Everything given, and nothing had.
Unmarked, unpraised, and overlooked,
Seeking and finding no reward,
Past mean, ungrateful dissonance
The young feet still climb heavenward,
Following the face, the face she sees
In every suffering face, her Lord.
Seeking and finding no reward,
Past mean, ungrateful dissonance
The young feet still climb heavenward,
Following the face, the face she sees
In every suffering face, her Lord.
But patience for herself she keeps,
Her measured portion pure and plain;
Sad secret for the heart of love,
She knows no day that is not pain;
Suffering, she loses all her life,
And yet for love's sake counts it gain.
Her measured portion pure and plain;
Sad secret for the heart of love,
She knows no day that is not pain;
Suffering, she loses all her life,
And yet for love's sake counts it gain.
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Yet through the uncomplaining hours
The cross is sharp, the fire is hot;
This only do the sweet lips tell,
‘I pity those who suffer not;
How much they miss!’ Thus faithfully,
O Child, dost thou embrace thy lot.
The cross is sharp, the fire is hot;
This only do the sweet lips tell,
‘I pity those who suffer not;
How much they miss!’ Thus faithfully,
O Child, dost thou embrace thy lot.
O eyes most sweet, whose tenderness
Is all that doth their suffering show!
The loveliest and most loving eyes
That still upon the earth I know;
Last light of love that shines for me
Ere downward to the grave I go.
Is all that doth their suffering show!
The loveliest and most loving eyes
That still upon the earth I know;
Last light of love that shines for me
Ere downward to the grave I go.
The sweetbriar rose but shadows her:—
But O my white-robed angel tall,
With brows of pity bending down,
How have I merited to call
Thee mine, and even rule o'er thee,
With the most royal right of all?
But O my white-robed angel tall,
With brows of pity bending down,
How have I merited to call
Thee mine, and even rule o'er thee,
With the most royal right of all?
But, oh, my darling, still my own,
How know we what must be our fate?
What may divide us ere the end?
Whether our rest come soon or late?
Which one shall close the other's eyes,
And which one be left desolate?
How know we what must be our fate?
What may divide us ere the end?
Whether our rest come soon or late?
Which one shall close the other's eyes,
And which one be left desolate?
The boughs weave garlands over her,
As on she goes from tree to tree;
I hear the angels whispering,
‘When will she join our company?’
Her steps are still beside my path:
I think the angels envy me.
As on she goes from tree to tree;
I hear the angels whispering,
‘When will she join our company?’
Her steps are still beside my path:
I think the angels envy me.
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