Part 4

Now many a million tortured souls In his red halls there be: Why does he spend his subtle craft In hunting after me?

Kings, queens and crested warriors Whose memory rings through time, These are his prey, and what to him Is this poor man of rhyme,

That he, with such laborious skill, Should change from role to role, Should daily act so many a part To get my little soul?

Oh, he can be the forest, And he can be the sun, Or a buttercup, or an hour of rest When the weary day is done.

I saw him through a thousand veils, And has not this sufficed? Now, must I look on the Devil robed In the radiant Robe of Christ?

He comes, and his face is sad and mild, With thorns his head is crowned; There are great bleeding wounds in his feet, And in each hand a wound.

How can I tell, who am a fool, If this be Christ or no? Those bleeding hands outstretched to me! Those eyes that love me so!

I see the Robe -- I look -- I hope -- I fear -- but there is one Who will direct my troubled mind; Christ's Mother knows her Son.

O Mother of Good Counsel, lend Intelligence to me! Encompass me with wisdom, Thou Tower of Ivory!

"This is the Man of Lies," she says, "Disguised with fearful art: He has the wounded hands and feet, But not the wounded heart."

Beside the Cross on Calvary She watched them as they diced. She saw the Devil join the game And win the Robe of Christ.

The Singing Girl

(For the Rev. Edward F. Garesche, S. J.)

There was a little maiden In blue and silver drest, She sang to God in Heaven And God within her breast.

It flooded me with pleasure, It pierced me like a sword, When this young maiden sang: "My soul Doth magnify the Lord."

The stars sing all together And hear the angels sing, But they said they had never heard So beautiful a thing.

Saint Mary and Saint Joseph, And Saint Elizabeth, Pray for us poets now And at the hour of death.

The Annunciation

(For Helen Parry Eden)

"Hail Mary, full of grace," the Angel saith. Our Lady bows her head, and is ashamed; She has a Bridegroom Who may not be named, Her mortal flesh bears Him Who conquers death. Now in the dust her spirit grovelleth; Too bright a Sun before her eyes has flamed, Too fair a herald joy too high proclaimed, And human lips have trembled in God's breath.

O Mother-Maid, thou art ashamed to cover With thy white self, whereon no stain can be, Thy God, Who came from Heaven to be thy Lover, Thy God, Who came from Heaven to dwell in thee. About thy head celestial legions hover, Chanting the praise of thy humility.

Roses

(For Katherine Bregy)

I went to gather roses and twine them in a ring, For I would make a posy, a posy for the King. I got an hundred roses, the loveliest there be, From the white rose vine and the pink rose bush and from the red rose tree.

But when I took my posy and laid it at His feet I found He had His roses a million times more sweet. There was a scarlet blossom upon each foot and hand, And a great pink rose bloomed from His side for the healing of the land.

Now of this fair and awful King there is this marvel told, That He wears a crown of linked thorns instead of one of gold. Where there are thorns are roses, and I saw a line of red, A little wreath of roses around His radiant head.

A red rose is His Sacred Heart, a white rose is His face, And His breath has turned the barren world to a rich and flowery place. He is the Rose of Sharon, His gardener am I, And I shall drink His fragrance in Heaven when I die.

The Visitation