Page:Poems Jackson.djvu/233

 Amiss in greeting her. Such sweet, proud shame
 In every look would tell her hidden fame
Whose poet lover, singing, loves her so
 That all his songs unconsciously repeat
The fact of her, no matter what he sings,
 The color and the tone of her in things
Remotest, and the presence of her, sweet
 And strong to hold him lowest at her feet,
When most he soars on highest sunlit wings.

I bless thee, Lady whom I do not know!
 I thank God for thy unseen, beauteous face,
 And lovely soul, which make this year of grace
In all our land so full of grace to grow;
As years were, solemn centuries ago,
 When lovers knew to set in stateliest place
 Their mistresses, and, for their sake, no race
Disdained or feared to run, they loved them so.
 Reading the verses which I know are thine,
My heart grows reverent, as on holy ground.
 I think of many an unnamed saintly shrine
I saw in Old World churches, hung around
 With pictured scrolls and gifts in grateful sign
Of help which sore-pressed souls of men had found.

O sweetest immortality, which pain
 Of Love's most bitter ecstasy can buy,
 Sole immortality which can defy
Earth's power on earth's own ground, and never wane,
All other ways, hearts breaking, try in vain,
 All fire and flood and moth and rust outvie
 Love's artifice. The sculptor's marbles lie