Wherefrom the dampness on thy forehead drips 

   With dews from out God's meadows infinite,— 

   Thy face, itself, a lily filled with light:— 

   Thyself the youngest of God's angels and most fair, 

   Bearing His latest breath and blessing on thine hair, 

   Thou comest fresh from looking on thy Lord; 

   And all is well, and all is filled for thee 

   With eloquent, mute wonder of His Word. 

   Oh, lean a little forth thy lips to me, 

   For I am fain of peace amid this earthly strife, 

   And I would drink, a spent soul, thirstily, 

   From out thy never-failing cup of life. 

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[29]

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     A PRAYER FOR THE FOLLOWERS OF IDEAL BEAUTY 

     (With a pencil sketch of an Angel by Botticelli) 

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