Poems (Scudder)/The Virgin's Lace
THE VIRGIN'S LACE
Mary called her maidens all, Wheresoe'er they chanced to be—Margaret and Hildegarde, Called the sweet-voiced Cecily.
From the mystic bower where Four bright streams of water meet, Where she taught the youngling birds Chant and hymn and carol sweet
—Ah, the quaintly nodding heads, Ah the glossy, rounded throats—How they chirruped, piped and trilled, Mimicking her clearest notes.
Agnes and Eulalia From the fragrant meadows sped Where the Holy Children played Weaving for each curly head
Daisy-bud and violet With the golden crocus bound, Till the garland closely wreathed Hid the halo's shining round.
Mary quoth "Let all attend— 'Tis no time for song or play: We must toil at weaving lace Even to the close of day."
All the sky a pillow made Smoothly folded for her knee, Azure velvet, and the pins Stars of purest crystal be.
'Twas grave Luke the artist-saint, Drew the patterns, tracing well, Twining stems of amaranth, Pointed leaves of asphodel.
In a circle sat the fair Maidens all, and chanted low, While beneath their fingers light, Swift the shining web did grow.
Once the heedless Magdalen Tore the dainty woof across—Straightway with her golden hair Did she mend the pattern's loss.
Might the jewelled bobbins fall— Jasper, sardonyx—why then, Fleet the laughing cherubs ran, Prompt to pick them up again.
So they toiled till eventide, And when every stitch was done, Hung it where its beauty showed Frail against the setting sun.
We have seen it oftentimes, Fragile wonder of the past—Whorl and spiral delicate And we deemed it would outlast
Steel and granite—yet we know Brutal hands have torn the lace Wrought by Mary and her maids Ruined all its airy grace.
—Michael of the Fiery Sword, Smite and fiercely smite again Those who rent the priceless web, Made the blest ones' labor vain.