I am the Virgin; from this granite ledge A hundred weary winters have I watched The lonely road that wanders at my feet; And many days I ’ve sat here, in my lap A little heap of snow, and overheard The dry, dead voices of sere, rustling leaves; While scarce a beggar creaked across the way. How very old I am! I have forgot The day they fixed me here; and whence I came, With crown of gold, and all my tarnished blue. How green the grass is now, and all around Blossoms the May; but it is cold in here, Sunless and cold.—Now comes a little maid To kneel among the asters at my feet; What a sweet noise she makes, like murmurings Of bees in June! I wonder what they say, These rosy mortals, when they look at me? I wonder why They call me Mary and bow down to me? Oh, I am weary of my painted box,— Come, child, And lay thy warm face on my wooden cheek, That I may feel it glow as once of yore It glowed when I, a cedar’s happy heart, Felt the first sunshine of the early spring!
The Wayside Virgin
More from Poet
-
This is the end of the book Written by God. I am the earth he took, I am the sod, The wood and iron which he struck With his sounding rod. I am the reed that he blew: Once quietly By the riverside I grew, Till one day he Rooted me up and breathed a new Delirium in me. Would he had...
-
I am the Virgin; from this granite ledge A hundred weary winters have I watched The lonely road that wanders at my feet; And many days I ’ve sat here, in my lap A little heap of snow, and overheard The dry, dead voices of sere, rustling leaves; While scarce a beggar creaked across the way. How...
-
Her aged hands are worn with works of love; Dear aged hands that oft on me are laid; Her heart’s below, but, oh, her love’s above, As flowers do sunward turn though in the shade. The set of sun is dear that lasts not long, And she is sweeter far than light that dies: But if her aged body’s weak...
-
Fear there is a sound I would not hear, Although it music’s self might be; Lest in my breast a crystal sphere Might burst, might break for melody. There is a face I would not see Tho’ like the springtime it were fair; Lest love that was a barren tree Should burst in bloom—should blossoms...
-
Technique could but this be brought Into your ken,—that the technique is thought! Escape from “Style,” the notion men can use Words without thoughts,—so wrench and so abuse The innocent language to their ends that they Will seem to be respectful, honest, gay, Grave, or what else—and...