XLV

Flower of the world, bright angel, single friend!

I never asked of Heaven thou shouldst love me;

As well ask Heaven's self that spreads above me

With all his stars about my head to bend

It is enough my spirit may ascend

And clasp the good whence nothing can remove me;

Enough, if faith and hope and love approve me,

And make me worthy of the blessed end.

And as a pilgrim from the path withdraws,

Seeing Christ carven on the holy rood,

And breathes an AVE in the solitude,

So will I stop and pray — for I have cause —

And in all crossways of my thinking pause

Before thine image, saying: God is good.

When I survey the harvest of the year

And from time's threshing garner up the grain,

What profit have I of forgotten pain,

What comfort, heart-locked, for the winter's cheer?

The season's yield is this, that thou art dear,

And that I love thee, that is all my gain;

The rest was chaff, blown from the weary brain

Where now thy treasured image lieth clear.

How liberal is beauty that, but seen,

Makes rich the bosom of her silent lover!

How excellent is truth, on which I lean!

Yet my religion were a charmed despair,

Did I not in thy perfect heart discover

How beauty can be true and virtue fair.