A MATER DOLOROSA
469
Meet for repentance, ministering still
Unto all souls that suffer, even as now
I minister to you.
But what, you ask,
Of the boy Nello? Beppo died that year—
God rest his soul!—and the child 'bode with us.
But when the lad drew nigh to man's estate—
Too old for women's guidance—he was found
Oftener than elsewhere at the studio
Of old Fra Alessandro. He became
A painter, Signor, and men call him great.
I know not if he is—but you can see
His pictures yonder in San Spirito.
You've seen them? seen my face there? now you know
Whence comes the semblance that has puzzled you
Through all these weeks of languor?
It may be.
I am too old to care now, have outlived
Youth and its petty consciousness. My face
Is mine no longer. It is God's alone.
A Mater Dolorosa?—It is well!
Unto all souls that suffer, even as now
I minister to you.
But what, you ask,
Of the boy Nello? Beppo died that year—
God rest his soul!—and the child 'bode with us.
But when the lad drew nigh to man's estate—
Too old for women's guidance—he was found
Oftener than elsewhere at the studio
Of old Fra Alessandro. He became
A painter, Signor, and men call him great.
I know not if he is—but you can see
His pictures yonder in San Spirito.
You've seen them? seen my face there? now you know
Whence comes the semblance that has puzzled you
Through all these weeks of languor?
It may be.
I am too old to care now, have outlived
Youth and its petty consciousness. My face
Is mine no longer. It is God's alone.
A Mater Dolorosa?—It is well!
