IDEAL PASSION
147
III
She is not holy like the Virgin One,
The miracle of nature, simple, mild,
The mother sanctified above the child,
With rapt gaze turned forever on her Son,
In whom the world's salvation was begun;
Deep in His eyes creation undefiled
Rose like a star; whereat my lady smiled,
Before whom heavenly love doth herald run.
Her children are world prophecies to be
Far off ensouled in life mysterious;
Tremendous births, beyond the ecstasy
Of nature's ordination over us;
Immanent in the spiritual sea
Their beauty, and their godhead glorious.
