A pale clear beacon where the storm-drift is—
She stands alone, a wonder deathly-white.
She stands there patient nerved with inner might,
Indomitable in her feebleness,
Her face and will athirst against the light.
135. Good Friday
Am I a stone and not a sheep
That I can stand, O Christ, beneath Thy Cross,
To number drop by drop Thy Blood’s slow loss,
And yet not weep?