THE stillness of the sunshine liesUpon her spirit: silence seemsTo look out from its place of dreamsWhen suddenly she lifts her eyesTo waken, for a little space,The smile asleep upon her face.
A thousand years of sun and shower,The melting of unnumbered snowsGo to the making of the roseWhich blushes out its little hour.So old is Beauty: in its heartThe ages seem to meet and part.
Like Beauty's self, she holds a clearDeep memory of hidden things—The music of forgotten springs—So far she travels back, so nearShe seems to stand to patient truthAs old as Age, as young as Youth.
That is her window, by the gate.Now and again her figure flitsAcross the wall. Long hours she sitsWithin: on all who come to wait.Her Saviour too is hanging thereA foot or so above her chair.
"Sœur Marie de l'enfant Jésus,"You wrote it in my little book—Your shadow-name. Your shadow-lookIs dimmer and diviner too,But not to keep: it slips so farBeyond us to that golden bar
Where angels, watching from their stair,Half-envy you your tranquil daysOf prayer as exquisite as praise,—Grey twilights softer than their glareOf glory: all sweet human thingsWhich vanish with the whirr of wings.
Yet will you, when you wing your wayTo whiter worlds, more whitely shineOr shed a radiance more divineThan here you shed from day to day—High in His heaven a quiet star,Be nearer God than now you are?
