II

And that is marvellous comfort;--and yet poor
To what mere woman-mystery can give,
The strange simplicity that will endure
The pangs of death, most resolute to live.
This God of riddles that shaped a thing so frail
For his worst torment hid mysterious powers
Within her breast who can like lilies prevail
Through rains of doom that conquer brassy towers.
Her heart lies broken; when some trivial chord
Of sweetness chimes reveille through the sense,--
A rose, a song, a smile, a courtly word.
She wakes, and sighs, and softly passes thence
Back to the masquers, though her soul's veiled Pyx
Enclose the solemn fruits of the Crucifix.