WITHIN.

Could my heart hold another one?

I cannot tell.

Sometimes it seems an ample dome,

Sometimes a cell,

Sometimes a temple filled with saints,

Serene and fair,

Whose eyes are pure from mortal taints

All lilies are.

Sometimes a narrow shrine, in which

One precious fare

Smiles ever from its guarded niche,

With deathless grace.

Sometimes a nest, where weary things,

And weal; and shy,

Are brooded under mother wings

Till they can fly.

And then a palace, with wide rooms

Adorned and dressed,

Where eager slaves pour sweet perfumes

For each new guest.

Whiche'er it be, I know always

Within that door —

Whose latch it is not mine to raise —

Blows evermore,

With breath of balm upon its wing,

A soft, still air,

Which makes each closely folded thing

Look always fair.

My darlings, do you feel me near,

As every day

Into this hidden place and dear

I take my way?

Always you stand in radiant guise,

Always I see

A noiseless welcome in the eyes

You turn on me.

And, whether I come soon or late,

Whate'er befall,

Always within the guarded gate

I find you all.