Alan Sullivan (1868–1947)

CAME those who saw and loved her,

She was so fair to see!

No whit their homage moved her,

So proud she was, so free;

But, ah, her soul was turning

With strange and mystic yearning,

With some divine discerning,

Beyond them all—to me.

As light to lids that quiver

Throughout a night forlorn,

She came—a royal giver—

My temple to adorn;

And my soul rose to meet her,

To welcome her, to greet her,

To name, proclaim, her sweeter

And dearer than the morn.

For her most rare devising

Was mixed no common clay,

Nor earthly form, disguising

Its frailty for a day:

But sun and shadow blended

And fire and love descended

In one creation splendid

Nor less superb than they.

*****

You, of the finer moulding—

You, of the clearer light—

Whose spirit-life, unfolding,

Illumined my spirit’s night,

Stoop not to end my dreaming,

To stain the vision gleaming,

Or mar that glory, seeming

Too high for touch or sight.