Cry in thy child, wilt groaning wish the world

Back in unsummoned Void! and, woe! wilt fill

God's ear with troubled wonder and unrest!"

Softly he soothed her straying hair, and kissed

The fever from her lips. Over the palms

The sad moon poured her peace into their eyes,

Till Sleep, the angel of forgetfulness,

Folded again dark wings above their rest.

[Pg 35]

[Pg 35]

MARY AT NAZARETH

I know, Lord, Thou hast sent Him—

Thou art so good to me!—

But Thou hast only lent Him,

His heart's for Thee!

I dared—Thy poor hand-maiden—

Not ask a prophet-child:

Only a boy-babe laden

For earth—and mild.

But this one Thou hast given

 Prev. P 33/119 next