WITH a forehead serene and the gait of a queen She is threading life's sorrowful maze. Of her blessed evangel is none other sign Than that lift of her head, and a courage divine In the exquisite calm of her gaze. But to walk where she leads is to hold by high creeds; To feel stirrings of wings in the soul; To make spurs of one's fetters and moons of midnights; Of dim deserts make Pisgahs, of falls eagle-flights That shall sweep at one stretch to the goal. And remembering her is afar to recur To vows made by her side unafraid; To grow strong with her strength; to be girt with her grace, And to pattern one's soul by the look in her face, To receive Truth's supreme accolade. |