DOVE of the Holy Dove,
His one, His mate—
One art thou, single in thy mortal state
To be the chosen of Love,
His one, white Dove,
For whom He left His place in Trinity,
Letting His pinions fall
Low to the earth, that His great power might be
Around thee, nor appal,
But, soft in singleness of strength, might bring
The glory of the Father and the Son
To thee, the chosen One,
Amid the sounding clash of each vast wing.
His Perfect, thou art made
Immaculate;
For thou with dovelike whiteness must elate
That Heavenly Spouse arrayed,
Beyond all shade,
In whiteness of the Godhead of God’s throne,
That loves in utter white
From Person unto Person, and alone
Had dwelt in His pure light,
Until one day the Holy Dove was sent
To Thee, O Mary, thee, O Dove on earth,
And God the Son had birth
Of thee, Perfection of thy God’s intent.
VIRGO POTENS
YOUNG on the mountains and fresh
As the wind that thrills her hair,
As the dews that lap the flesh
Of her feet from cushions of thyme;
While her feet through the herbage climb,
Growing hardier, sweeter still
On rock-roses and cushions of thyme,
As she springs up the hill!
A goat in its vaultings less lithe,
From rock, to a tuft, to a rock;
As the young of wild-deer blithe,
The young of wild-deer, yet alone:
Strong as an eaglet just flown,
She wanders the white-woven earth,
As the young of wild-deer, yet alone,
In her triumph of mirth.
She will be Mother of God!
Secret He lies in her womb:
And this mountain she hath trod
Was later in strength than is she,
Who before its mass might be
Was chosen to bear her bliss:
Conceived before mountains was she,
Before any abyss.
The might that dwells in her youth
Is song to her heart and soul,
Of joy that, as joy, is truth,
That magnifies, and leaps
With its jubilant glee and sweeps,
O fairest, her breast, her throat,
Her mouth, and magnanimous leaps,
As the mountain-lark’s note!
Across the old hills she springs,
With God’s first dream as her crown:
She scales them swift, for she brings
Elizabeth news of grace.
The charity of her face
Is that of a lovely day,
When the birds are singing news of grace,
And the storms are away.
ANOTHER LEADETH THEE
IN whose hands, O Son of God,
Was Thy earthly Mission held?
Not in Thine, that made earth’s sod,
And the ocean as it welled
From creation to the shore;
Not in Thine, whose fingers’ lore
Checked the tide with golden bars,
Ruled the clouds and dinted stars—
Not in Thine, that made fresh leaves,
And the flourished wheat for sheaves;
Grapes that bubbled from a spring,
Where the nightingale might sing
From the blood of her wild throat;
Not in Thine that struck her note;
Maned the lion and wrought the lamb;
Breathed on clay, “Be as I am!”
And it stood before Thee fair,
Thinking, loving, furnished rare,
Like Thee, so beyond compare....