Poems (Scudder)/The Virgin's Lace

by Antoinette Quinby Scudder

THE VIRGIN'S LACE

Mary called her maidens all,
 Wheresoe'er they chanced to be—
Margaret and Hildegarde,
 Called the sweet-voiced Cecily.

From the mystic bower where
 Four bright streams of water meet,
Where she taught the youngling birds
 Chant and hymn and carol sweet

—Ah, the quaintly nodding heads,
 Ah the glossy, rounded throats—
How they chirruped, piped and trilled,
 Mimicking her clearest notes.

Agnes and Eulalia
 From the fragrant meadows sped
Where the Holy Children played
 Weaving for each curly head

Daisy-bud and violet
 With the golden crocus bound,
Till the garland closely wreathed
 Hid the halo's shining round.

Mary quoth "Let all attend—
 'Tis no time for song or play:
We must toil at weaving lace
 Even to the close of day."

All the sky a pillow made
 Smoothly folded for her knee,
Azure velvet, and the pins
 Stars of purest crystal be.

'Twas grave Luke the artist-saint,
 Drew the patterns, tracing well,
Twining stems of amaranth,
 Pointed leaves of asphodel.

In a circle sat the fair
 Maidens all, and chanted low,
While beneath their fingers light,
 Swift the shining web did grow.

Once the heedless Magdalen
 Tore the dainty woof across—
Straightway with her golden hair
 Did she mend the pattern's loss.

Might the jewelled bobbins fall—
 Jasper, sardonyx—why then,
Fleet the laughing cherubs ran,
 Prompt to pick them up again.

So they toiled till eventide,
 And when every stitch was done,
Hung it where its beauty showed
 Frail against the setting sun.

We have seen it oftentimes,
 Fragile wonder of the past—
Whorl and spiral delicate
 And we deemed it would outlast

Steel and granite—yet we know
 Brutal hands have torn the lace
Wrought by Mary and her maids
 Ruined all its airy grace.

—Michael of the Fiery Sword,
 Smite and fiercely smite again
Those who rent the priceless web,
 Made the blest ones' labor vain.