Classic Poem

I see her now — the fairest thing
That ever mocked man's picturing,
I picture her as one who drew
Aside life's curtain and looked through
The mists of all life's mystery
As from a wood to open sea.

I picture her as one who knew
How rare is truth to be untrue —
As one who knew the awful sign
Of death, of life, of the divine
Sweet pity of all loves, all hates,
Beneath the iron-footed fates.

I picture her as seeking peace,
And olive leaves and vine-set land;
While strife stood by on either hand,
And wrung her tears like rosaries.
I picture her in passing rhyme
As of, yet not a part of, these —
A woman born above her time.

The soft, wide eyes of wonderment
That trusting looked you through and through;
The sweet arched mouth, a bow new bent,
That sent love's arrows swift and true.

That sweet, arched mouth! The Orient
Hath not such pearis in all her stores,
Nor all her storied, spice-set shores
Have fragrance such as it hath spent.