XXXVIII

Oh, not for me, for thee, dear God, her head

Shines with this perfect golden aureole,

For thee this sweetness doth possess her soul,

And to thy chambers are her footsteps led.

The light will live that on my path she shed,

While any pilgrim yet hath any goal,

And heavenly musicians from their scroll

Will sing all her sweet words, when I am dead.

In her unspotted heart is steadfast faith

Fed on high thoughts, and in her beauteous face

The fountain of the love that conquers death;

And as I see her in her kneeling-place,

A Gabriel comes, and with inaudible breath

Whispers within me: Hail, thou full of grace.