THE TRINKETS

A wandering world of rivers,

A wavering world of trees,

If the world grow dim and dizzy

With all changes and degrees,

It is but Our Lady's mirror

Hung dreaming in its place,

Shining with only shadows

Till she wakes it with her face.

The standing whirlpool of the stars,

The wheel of all the world,

Is a ring on Our Lady's finger

With the suns and moons empearled

With stars for stones to please her

Who sits playing with her rings

With the great heart that a woman has

And the love of little things.

Wings of the whirlwind of the world

From here to Ispahan,

Spurning the flying forests

Are light as Our Lady's fan:

For all things violent here and vain

Lie open and all at ease

Where God has girded heaven to guard

Her holy vanities.