I.

With face storm-lined and bronzed, no longer young, That seemed as if its soul’s dim life had grown On lonely farm, in rugged inland town Lying, a narrow world, bleak hills among, A stranger gazed amid the wealth and glare Of all the nations’ gathered industry Where rose the light, symmetric tracery Of Munich’s altars worked in colors fair; Where good St. Joseph with the lilies stood; And soft-eyed martyr with her branch of palm, And full, sweet lips smiling with happy calm, Seemed beaming witness 'mid the multitude Of glittering toys and earth’s huge, unworked store, Of nobler purpose man’s life resting o’er.