The Man Against the Sky: A Book of Poems

The Gift of God

     Blessed with a joy that only she
     Of all alive shall ever know,
     She wears a proud humility
     For what it was that willed it so,—
     That her degree should be so great
     Among the favored of the Lord
     That she may scarcely bear the weight
     Of her bewildering reward.

     As one apart, immune, alone,
     Or featured for the shining ones,
     And like to none that she has known
     Of other women's other sons,—
     The firm fruition of her need,
     He shines anointed; and he blurs
     Her vision, till it seems indeed
     A sacrilege to call him hers.

     She fears a little for so much
     Of what is best, and hardly dares
     To think of him as one to touch
     With aches, indignities, and cares;
     She sees him rather at the goal,
     Still shining; and her dream foretells
     The proper shining of a soul
     Where nothing ordinary dwells.

     Perchance a canvass of the town
     Would find him far from flags and shouts,
     And leave him only the renown
     Of many smiles and many doubts;
     Perchance the crude and common tongue
     Would havoc strangely with his worth;
     But she, with innocence unwrung,
     Would read his name around the earth.

     And others, knowing how this youth
     Would shine, if love could make him great,
     When caught and tortured for the truth
     Would only writhe and hesitate;
     While she, arranging for his days
     What centuries could not fulfill,
     Transmutes him with her faith and praise,
     And has him shining where she will.

     She crowns him with her gratefulness,
     And says again that life is good;
     And should the gift of God be less
     In him than in her motherhood,
     His fame, though vague, will not be small,
     As upward through her dream he fares,
     Half clouded with a crimson fall
     Of roses thrown on marble stairs.