Classic Poem

Lowliest of Women, and most glorified
In thy still beauty, sitting calm and lone,
A brightness round thee grew; and by thy side,
Kindling the air, a Form ethereal shone,
Solemn, yet breathing gladness. From her throne
A Queen had risen with more imperial eye;
A stately Prophetess of victory,
From her proud lyre had struck a tempest's tone.
For such high tidings as to thee were brought,
Chosen of heaven, that hour: but thou, O thou,
E'en as a flower with gracious rains o'erfraught,
Thy Virgin-head beneath its crown didst bow,
And take to thy meek breast the All-holy Word,
And own thyself the Handmaid of the Lord.