THE BEAUTIFUL.
105
I sat and wrought upon the marble steps,Secure in faith and young humility,While men passed by—sometimes a gracious oneTo whom my heart said, throbbing, "Thou art he!"
But these went on, unheeding of their power—Theirs was another rite, another feast;Nor did my love wait on them—it abode,Steadfast and strong, the coming of the priest.
So was my garland wreathed with little aid,So were its petals blent too waywardly,Wild growths put gentle garden-flowers to shame,And poison-vines hung, trailing, from my knee.
I chose the best my scanty learning showed,Nor ever left the consecrated spot,But to return, with new-discovered spoils,From hill-side villa, wood, or garden-plot.
Soon, little feet essayed to follow mine,Sharing at will my wanderings, and my hap;Fingers, whose sense was nicer than my sight,Laid tiny offerings on the mother's lap.
