THE WIFE-BLESSÉD

In youth he wrought, with eyes ablur

Lorn-faced and long of hair —

In youth — in youth he painted her

A sister of the air —

Could clasp her not, but felt the stir

Of pinions everywhere.

She lured his gaze, in braver days,

And tranced him sirenwise;

And he did paint her, through a haze

Of sullen paradise,

With scars of kisses on her face

And embers in her eyes.

And now — nor dream nor wild conceit —

Though faltering, as before —

Through tears he paints her, as is meet,

Tracing the dear face o'er

With lilied patience meek and sweet

As Mother Mary wore.