Classic Poem

She wrought: and at her reverent touch,
That lingered long in loving much,

As to the sunlight and the dew
The tendril twined, the floweret grew,

Till burned around each holy name
A brightness as of altar flame;

Anthem and incense in each word
That bore the blossom or the bird;

Each letter's self a shrine, where art
Uttered the worship of the heart.

And still she wrought; and still her touch,
That lingered long in loving much,

Recalled their task in that old time
Who saw the slow cathedral climb,

Grand with the prayers of many days,
And glowing in its orb of praise;

Unfolding, as it neared the skies,
A passion-flower of centuries;

Rich in all grace that love alone
The taught of Heaven can teach to stone.

Such love as waits the dawn, and gave
The watch at midnight to His grave,

Steadfast and tireless, till the hour
Unveils the temple's perfect flower,

“Christ!” May He wreathe, as these are wrought,
Our lives with grace of deed and thought!