THE
ANGEL OF THOUGHT
and Other Poems

Angel of Thought, meseems God winged thee so,

And crowned thine head with passion fine as flame,

And made thy lifted face too pure for shame,

With eyes and brow a mirror to His glow;—

And gave thy lips a golden trump, that, though

Long years have passed since other angels came

To work the mighty wonders of His name,—

In God's own name and man's, thyself shalt go

Forever on strong pinions to and fro,

And round the earth reverberating blow

The mute, world-shaking music of the mind;

That thou might'st make as naught all space and time,

And thrill in mystic oneness through mankind,

Yet dwell in each, inviolate, sublime.

Kneeling in prayer, her spirit rapt above,

She meets with God, Who bendeth, brooding low,

In vast compassion humanward, and so,

There comes upon her life the power of Love:

Rising—behold! with pinions like a dove,

An angel with a rod where row on row

Of chaliced lilies spill supernal glow,—

Which all her thought to wonder mute doth move.

Then falls upon the rapture of her soul,

Dimly some vision of Gethsemane,

Athwart the Resurrection's shining goal,

And with uplifted hand she pleads as One

Shall pray in night of darkest agony,

"This cup remove,—yet, Lord, Thy Will be done."

Immortal eloquence of mystic Art!

How strangely o'er oblivion and gray time,

That hand doth speak, as in the painter's prime

It uttered thus his own and Mary's heart,

At sight of it, what rich conjectures start,

Adown the years, what wistful Aves chime,

That wake the soul to rapture how sublime,

Wherewith we, too, must bear in Him our part!

For unto each to bring redemption's share,

Whereby adown the ages Christ is borne,

There comes the angel of the lilied rod;

And though our souls with anguish sore are torn,

We pray once more the world-o'ercoming prayer,

And then is born in us the Word of God.

The mountains wonder from their cloudy height,

The skies look on and grow more deep with awe;

From these two women, earthly loves withdraw,

And leave them shrined in some ensphering light,—

More fine than that which greets the earthly sight,

More glorious than that Creation saw,

When, from abeyance to primeval law,

There burst the dawn from out the womb of night;

Yet are all things unchanged around them,—these,

The ancient hills, the town, the quiet trees,

The household presences through which they grope

Blind to all else but to each other's eyes,

Wherein, transforming heaven and earth, there lies

Sublime effulgence of immortal Hope.

Behold! the Tabernacle of God's Will

This woman's form enshrineth. What is this,

More glorious than all our age-long bliss,

Which shines within the shadow of her sill?

How shall we lift this strangeness which doth fill

Her human heart to breaking,—we who miss

In our immortal joy, the enlight'ning kiss

Of sorrow's bitter lips whence comforts thrill?

How shall we sing to her of joys to come,

To her who bears upon her breast the sum

Of death's dread gloom and heaven's undying light?

Lean close, ah, close, about her from above,—

Behold upon the mildness of her love

Enthroned the terrors of His Holy Might!

O child of mine, my little Son, alas!

Beneath the sunlight of Thy gentle eyes,

Too soon, too soon, what fateful shadows rise,

Like night foretold in some sweet woodland glass?

On tender feet that scarcely bow the grass,

What stains are those of ripe pomegranate dyes?—

When on my breast Thy head in slumber lies,

What thorns are those that through my heart do pass?

And round about these crowds of haunting forms

That burn their splendor through my dimmest dreams!

O little Child, Thou Wonder too divine,

Thy precious body all my bosom warms

With mine own blood, but oftentimes it seems,

Too dearly loved,—that yet Thou art not mine.

The little hands returning wistfully

From birdlike wand'rings, ever come to rest,

On fostering hand on tender cheek or breast;

The upturned eyes, with loving certainty

Seek ever the grave face where broodingly,

The mother-soul by yearning love opprest,

With wings down-drooped, seems folded o'er the nest

Where lies the Hope of all humanity.

And she His World, and He her Calvary,—

He wraps her round with all the mystery

Of love predestined for earth's needy ones;

"Be comforted," it seems He fain would say,

"O mother mine, there dawns an Easter day,

And thou in me hast mothered many sons."

Ineffable angel, with the jasmine wreathed,

Wherefrom the sweetness over brow and lips,

And luminous white eyelids tremulously slips,

A visible essence from thy beauty breathed,—

The pure and pensive marvel of thy face is sheathed

In tresses softer than the bloom of night,

Wherefrom the dampness on thy forehead drips

With dews from out God's meadows infinite,—

Thy face, itself, a lily filled with light:—

Thyself the youngest of God's angels and most fair,

Bearing His latest breath and blessing on thine hair,

Thou comest fresh from looking on thy Lord;

And all is well, and all is filled for thee

With eloquent, mute wonder of His Word.

Oh, lean a little forth thy lips to me,

For I am fain of peace amid this earthly strife,

And I would drink, a spent soul, thirstily,

From out thy never-failing cup of life.

Thou in whose All no work imperfect stands,

Thou who dost gaze on Beauty's unveiled face,

Grant to Thy children Thy sustaining grace,

When low at length have run the daylight sands,—

When, though their day was set to Thy commands,

They bow contritely in prayer's holy place,

Because through strivings beauty-wards they trace

The sad misshapings of their earthly hands:

Grant them at eve a soul devoutly still,

Grant them in dreams a vision of Thy light,

Grant them at morn a sorrow purged away

Into the peace of all-absolving night,

Star in the dawnlight of a fairer day,

Nearer the blossom of Thy perfect Will.