Classic Poem

Not all thy purity, although
The whitest moon that ever lit
The peaks of Lebanonian snow
Shone dusk and dim compared with it—

Not that great love of thine, whose beams
Transcended, in their virtuous heat,
Those suns which melt the ice-bound streams,
And make earth's pulses newly beat—

It was not these that from the sky
Drew down to thee the Eternal Word:
He looked on thy humility;
He knew thee, ‘Hand-maid of thy Lord.’

Let no one claim with thee a part;
Let no one, Mary, name thy name,
While, aping God, upon his heart
Pride sits, a demon robed in flame.

Proud vices, die. Where sin has place
Be sin's avenger, self-disgust:
Proud virtues, doubly die, that grace
At last may burgeon from your dust.