Who works it? No dead relic sweet
Of her, my living saint,
Perfect beyond the skill of thought
Of fancy’s power to paint.
Whole from her suffering martyrdom
She is arisen. No tomb
Could hold her, no far blissful heaven
Allure. Her heaven is home.
No place more holy than these walks,
This garden, where the flowers
Swing censers breathing up to God,
This house a Book of Hours.
No room but memory’s sacred hand,
Gilded, illuminate,
Paints how she suffered, loved and died—
The legend of her fate.
In heaven she is; beatitude
To her; her loved ones still,
So loving she, here, here, enskyed
To guard. It is God’s will.
Here in the old sweet home where, still
A guardian spirit, she
Heals, comforts, counsels, and performs
Her angel ministry.
Manmohan Ghose.
MYVANWY
Oft hast thou heard it, that old true saying,
’Tis like and unlike makes the happiest music.
Then, gravely smiling, scorn me not, Myvanwy,
Fairest of maidens.
Thou who in sunlight sittest, pensive leaning
At the open window, thy hand deep-buried
In dark sweet clusters of thy hair, and gazest
O’er the wide ocean.