I know of a noble lady
Who has never lifted her veil;
Her hand, on the aching temples,
Is tender, and cool, and pale;
Her raiment is black and crimson,
Her voice, which is seldom loud,
Is drowned by a lover's whisper,
But not by a surging crowd;
And her speech, which is heard within us,
Soundeth as if from far,
And she calleth the things that are not
To rebuke the things that are.
Therefore her word is the pillar
Of whatever standeth on earth,
And if aught on earth be precious,
Her sentence gives it worth.
She is very staid in her going,
As if she knew that haste
Would scatter the manna, hidden,
For wayfarers to taste.
Yet whithersoever we hasten,
We find her waiting there;
And she walks where the ways are foulest,
As if she trod upon air.
I have told of her speech and her going;
Of her deeds there is this to tell,
She lifteth up to heaven,
She casteth down to hell.
On earth she layeth foundations,
And others build thereupon;
When they set the headstone with shoutings
She is far away and gone.
For her road is with them that labor,
Her rest is with them that grieve;
Her name is Faith, while you serve her;
When you lose her, Make Believe.
