VI.

I am not proud--meek angels, ye invest New meeknesses to hear such utterance rest On mortal lips,--"I am not proud"--_not proud!_ Albeit in my flesh God sent His Son, Albeit over Him my head is bowed As others bow before Him, still mine heart Bows lower than their knees. O centuries That roll in vision your futurities My future grave athwart,-- Whose murmurs seem to reach me while I keep Watch o'er this sleep,-- Say of me as the Heavenly said--"Thou art The blessedest of women!"--blessedest, Not holiest, not noblest, no high name Whose height misplaced may pierce me like a shame When I sit meek in heaven! For me, for me, God knows that I am feeble like the rest! I often wandered forth, more child than maiden Among the midnight hills of Galilee Whose summits looked heaven-laden, Listening to silence as it seemed to be God's voice, so soft yet strong, so fain to press Upon my heart as heaven did on the height, And waken up its shadows by a light, And show its vileness by a holiness. Then I knelt down most silent like the night, Too self-renounced for fears, Raising my small face to the boundless blue Whose stars did mix and tremble in my tears: God heard _them_ falling after, with His dew.