The Gift of God
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lessed with a joy that only sheOf all alive shall ever know,She wears a proud humilityFor what it was that willed it so,--That her degree should be so greatAmong the favored of the LordThat she may scarcely bear the weightOf her bewildering reward. As one apart, immune, alone,Or featured for the shining ones,And like to none that she has knownOf other women's other sons,--The firm fruition of her need,He shines anointed; and he blursHer vision, till it seems indeedA sacrilege to call him hers. She fears a little for so muchOf what is best, and hardly daresTo think of him as one to touchWith aches, indignities, and cares;She sees him rather at the goal,Still shining; and her dream foretellsThe proper shining of a soulWhere nothing ordinary dwells. Perchance a canvass of the townWould find him far from flags and shouts,And leave him only the renownOf many smiles and many doubts;Perchance the crude and common tongueWould havoc strangely with his worth;But she, with innocence unwrung,Would read his name around the earth. And others, knowing how this youthWould shine, if love could make him great,When caught and tortured for the truthWould only writhe and hesitate;While she, arranging for his daysWhat centuries could not fulfill,Transmutes him with her faith and praise,And has him shining where she will. She crowns him with her gratefulness,And says again that life is good;And should the gift of God be lessIn him than in her motherhood,His fame, though vague, will not be small,As upward through her dream he fares,Half clouded with a crimson fallOf roses thrown on marble stairs.
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