Ay, she was as Madonna to
The tawny, lawless, faithful few
Who touched her hand and knew her soul:
She drew them, drew them as the pole
Points all things to itself.
She drew
Men upward as a moon of spring,
High wheeling, vast and bosom-full,
Half clad in clouds and white as wool,
Draws all the strong seas following.
Yet still she moved as sad, as lone
As that same moon that leans above,
And seems to search high heaven through
For some strong, all-sufficient love,
For one brave love to be her own,
To lean upon, to love, to woo,
To lord her high white world, to yield
His clashing sword against her shield.
Oh, I once knew a sad, white dove
That died for such sufficient love,
Such high-born soul with wings to soar:
That stood up equal in its place,
That looked love level in the face,
Nor wearied love with leaning o'er
To lift love level where she trod
In sad delight the hills of God.