Classic Poem

An hour ago I saw Thee ride in gold
Along the burning highways of the skies;
And now — Thou comest with soft and suppliant eyes,
And fearing lest Thy love seem overbold.

In this dear garden set with flower and tree,
My soul, a maiden whom a great king woos,
Stands thrilled and silent — Lord, what can she choose,
Dumbfounded by Thy strange humility?

Since Thou wilt have it so, my Lord, I bare
In love and shamefastness my soul — Thy soul —
So lay Thy tender hand, an aureole,
Upon my beating heart, my chrismed hair.