The deep religion of a thankful heart,
Which rests instinctively in heaven’s clear law
With a full peace, that never can depart
From its own steadfastness;—a holy awe
For holy things,—not those which men call holy,
But such as are revealed to the eyes
Of a true woman’s soul bent down and lowly
Before the face of daily mysteries:
A love that blossoms soon, but ripens slowly
To the full goldenness of fruitful prime,