Classic Poem

Is that sublime translation hers,
Lifting beyond our look
The small, gray figure sitting
In the chimney-nook?

Golden harps and dulcimers,
What should she do with these?
I see her with her knitting
Dropt upon her knees;

About her feet her pussy purrs;
—But no! with eyes grown dim
Come the friends and neighbors
To chant her passing-hymn:

“Meet Thou all lonely travellers
And lead them, Christ our Lord,
From the familiar labors
Unto the strange reward.”

Our grief has taxed the gardeners.
She lies in such array
Of roses and of lilies
As for a bridal day.

Do these late honors Death confers
Abash her humbleness?
Her heart—ah me!—too still is;
Her calm brows acquiesce.

O when those mystic barriers
Our Maries pass, we dream
That in some fair Elysian
Their thirst has found the Stream;

But the Marthas are our cottagers
Who make our fireside bliss.
The Beatific Vision—
She never talked of this.

On that white fact the bier avers
Our restless question beats,
In world-old wistful fashion,
Unbroken by defeats:

Is common life that ministers
The earthly bread and wine,
This, too, the Holy Passion,
The fugitive Divine?

A sudden mist our seeing blurs,
Such sacramental grace
Hath poured its revelation
Into that patient face;

And neighbor-hand toward neighbor stirs,
Her sainthood to confess
By love's own consecration,
Memorial kindliness.