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 favoured 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 fulfil,

 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.