We saw the Sistine Mother,
The farthest Nations know—
Till room on room of light and gloom
Swept row on outer row.
And some we knew and reverenced—
Whose praise the wide World sings;
And some we fled with callous dread
For flat and flaccid things.
Till at last at the gallery’s ending
In the room with the roof-let door,
We saw a young man standing—
The Lone Son bid to War.
Lithe and strong and supple,
Clean-limbed, clear-eyed and tall—
And the parting gaze of the parting ways
When the battered trumpets call.
And we saw the widowed Mother—
And the prostrate, sobless grief;
And the pitying priest beside her,
And the gentle, vain relief.
And the Sister—standing—watching—
’Twixt love, reproach and tears—
The tender light of the summer night
Where brood the unfathomed years.
The Maiden—standing, watching—
Fair as the first, faint star:
A dainty symbol sent to prove
How near the angels are.
. . . . . . . . . .
We gleaned the gallery’s gorgeous wealth—
But lost its wondrous worth,
As we bowed a head in silence
To the Good of all the Earth.
THE HERITAGE
Full well they tilled the barren soil—
Full well they sowed the seed—
Full well they held by life and life
The seal of the title deed.