Читать книгу Poems - Julia C. R. Dorr - Страница 25

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O wondrous mystery of death! I yield me to thine awful sway, And with hushed heart and bated breath Bow down before thy shrine to-day!

But yesterday these pallid lips Breathed reverently my humble name; These eyes now closed in drear eclipse Brightened with gratitude’s soft flame.

These poor, pale hands were swift to do The lowliest service I might ask; These palsied feet the long day through Moved gladly to each wonted task.

O faithful, patient, loving one, Who from earth’s great ones shrank afar, Canst bear the presence of The Son, And dwell where holy angels are?

Dost thou not meekly bow thine head, And stand apart with humblest mien, Nor dare with softest step to tread The ranks of shining Ones between?

Dost thou not kneel with downcast eyes The hem of some white robe to touch, While on thine own meek forehead lies The crown of her who “lovèd much?”

O vain imaginings! To-day Earth’s loftiest prince is not thy peer. Come, Sage and Seer! mute homage pay To this Pale Wonder lying here!