The Mother’s Tragedy

86 THE WHORE IN HEAVEN The chill damp chapel. God denied them not One chance of sight and love: their bed begot The loveliest child angels e’er prayed above, A maiden that an anchorite would love. She grew to beauty and to thoughts divine, Yet knelt each day in prayer to such a Thing As could not (so she knew) create the vine, The air, the linnet, and the water-spring. And every week some red-nosed ranter jarred Her tender ears—(yes, life was very hard }). Then she guessed Love. A village boy she took, And drew his soul out with her amorous look. The stream sang merrier and the grass grew green ; The leaves made murmur as she drew him down Into her maiden arms: the far-off queen She guessed so happy in her golden crown She never envied after: for she wrung Love’s secret, understanding, heart and tongue, Its strange desire; sage heads the linnets nod, Chirping: ‘‘So Lilian has found her God!” No! For she might not in her joy discern The real fountain of delight. She took The carrion crow to be the golden erne, Saw dainty covers, and misread the book. The world was open to her now—she went From passion unto passion, sacrament To profanation: and the village knew She asked for lovers, and cared little who.