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
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