This your rebuke has taught me. Take my sword,
And on your form divine my purple bear;
While, kneeling at your feet, I pledge my word
For King Love's sake in Woman's cause to fare
Against Tradition's standard—church or state—
And be my Sister's knight and laureate.
XXIII
O woman, now thy golden day's at morn!
Dawn leaps and laughs upon the waiting hills,
And sings thy freedom; for thy sorrow fills
The cup at last; and all that thou hast borne
Pleads thy release! ... Lord Christ, and crowned with thorn,
Lay bare each sacred agony that spills
Blood of the crucified pure hearts and wills,
Brows, hands, and feet, the centuries have torn!
This be the song that you have taught me sing,
The strain you on my ready harp confer.
Love seeks, as sought each Christ-adoring king,
But to bow down ... Gold, frankincense, and myrrh,
Are offered, not the body to possess,
Neither command, but reverently to bless.
XXIV
I am all gladness like a little child!
Grief's tragic figure of the veiled face
Fades from my path, moving with measured pace
Back from the splendour that breaks on the wild,
High hills of sorrow, where the storm-clouds piled
In drift of tears. Lo! with what tender grace
Joy holds the world again in her embrace
Since you came forth, and looked on me, and smiled.
Down in the valley shines a scimiter—
A stream with autumn-gold deep damascened;
And of the bards of day one loiterer
Still lingers at his song, securely screened
By foliage. Dear, what miracle is this,
Transforming void and chaos with a kiss!