She did not fear,
But crept close up to Christ and said,
" Is he not here?"

They drew her back —
The seraphs who had never bled
Of weary lack —

But still she cried,
With torn robe, clutching at His feet,
" Dear Christ! He died

" So long ago!
Is he not here? Three days, unfleet
As mortal flow.

" Of time I've sought —
Till Heaven's amaranthine ways
Seem as sere nought!"

A grieving stole
Up from His heart and waned the gaze
Of His clear soul

Into her eyes.
" He is not here," troubled He sighed.
" For none who dies

" Beliefless may
Bend lips to this sin-healing Tide,
And live alway."

Then darkness rose
Within her, and drear bitterness.
Out of its throes

She moaned, at last,
" Let me go hence! Take off the dress,
The charms Thou hast

" About me strown!
Beliefless too am I without
His love — and lone!"

Unto the Gate
They led her, though with pitying doubt.
She did not wait

But stepped across
Its portal, turned not once to heed
Or know her loss. ...

Then her dream broke,
And with it every loveless creed —
Beneath love's stroke.