I.

“And didst thou die, dear Mother of our Life? Sin had no part in thee: then how should death? Methinks, if aught the great tradition saith Could wake in loving hearts a moment’s strife” (I said――my own with Her new image rife), “’Twere this.” And yet ’tis certain, next to faith, Thou didst lie down to render up thy breath: Though after the Seventh Sword no meaner knife Could pierce that bosom. No, nor did. No sting Of pain was there, but only joy. The love, So long thy life ecstatic, and restrained From setting free thy soul, now gave it wing: Thy body, soon to reign with it above, Radiant and fragrant, as in trance, remained.