A mighty prescience seemed to brood Over that tenuous solitude Yearning for form, till it became Vivid as dream and live as flame, Through magic art could never match, The vision I have tried to catch,-- All earth's delight and meaning grown A lyric presence loved and known.
How otherwise could time evolve Young courage, or the high resolve, Or gladness to assuage and bless The soul's austere great loneliness, Than by providing her somehow With sympathy of hand and brow, And bidding her at last go free, Companioned through eternity?
So there appeared before my eyes, In a beloved, familiar guise, A vivid, questing human face In profile, scanning heaven for grace, Up-gazing there against the blue With eyes that heaven itself shone through; The lips soft-parted, half in prayer, Half confident of kindness there; A brow like Plato's made for dream In some immortal Academe, And tender as a happy girl's; A full dark head of clustered curls Round as an emperor's, where meet Repose and ardor, strong and sweet, Distilling from a mind unmarred The glory of her rapt regard.
So eager Mary might have stood, In love's adoring attitude, And looked into the angel's eyes With faith and fearlessness, all wise In soul's unfaltering innocence, Sure in her woman's supersense Of things only the humble know. My vision looks forever so.
In other years when men shall say, "What was the painter's meaning, pray? Why all this vast of sea and space, Just to enframe a woman's face?" Here is the pertinent reply, "What better use for earth and sky?"
The great archangel passed that way Illuming life with mystic ray. Not Lippo's self nor Raphael Had lovelier, realer things to tell Than I, beholding far away How all the melting rose and gray Upon the purple sea-line leaned About that head that intervened.
How real was she? Ah, my friend, In art the fact and fancy blend Past telling. All the painter's task Is with the glory. Need we ask The tulips breaking through the mould To their untarnished age of gold, Whence their ideals were derived That have so gloriously survived? Flowers and painters both must give The hint they have received, to live,-- Spend without stint the joy and power That lurk in each propitious hour,-- Yet leave the why untold--God's way.