Blue and golden was her robe of mosaic,
Blue and golden the tips of her shoes,
The blurred wall gathered crystal lilies round her,
Green lilies, lilies of dimmed water:
There was no white, no milk-white touch about her,
All was lucent, was green and blue and gold.
There is no white about the name of Mary,
Mary that is Marah—that is bitter,
Mary that sounds like running water
Tinkling like a host of muted bells
In cavities of tinkling-atomed limestone
Where, in a round clear drop of water,
Hang the tiny voices, the voices of the atoms,
Singing of stalactites, of the loveliness of Mary.
Mary it is they dream of in the darkness of the grotto,
Mary is the vision and the song inaudible
Where grow the Stalactites
And the dimmer Stalagmites;
It cannot be seen that they are growing,
In the darkness there is no glint or glitter,
Only the loveliness of Mary,
The conception and the bones of Mary.