Classic Poem

Like to a crown of stars her gloriole;
Her feet are shod with silence, and her eyes
Are calmly glad with the divine surprise
Apocalyptic.—No man may control
Her coming or her going, nor cajole
From her, by vigil, prayer, and sacrifice,
The mystery that in her bosom lies,
A gift of grace to the elected soul.
In her compassion tenderly austere,
She is implacable as she is kind;
Her radiance illumines not the blind,
Nor may the deaf her revelation hear:
She is the bearer of celestial light,
And this her mandate: “What thou seest, write.”