The Mother’s Tragedy

THE WHORE IN HEAVEN HERE dwells an image, deathlessly divine, With beauty’s armour panoplied, more strong Than Styx could make ASacides; a shrine Of subtle passion, and unsleeping song, In every soul that knows the emotional Swift sound that wings the slave’s despairing call. There, in the harbour of supreme success, It lingers, wrapt in its own loveliness. No invocation of the myriad rays Of thousand-coloured flowers may move its peace: No manifold keen music where the ways Of lofty corridors, and foaming seas, And crag-hewn pinnacles, accept the wind’s Wild fingers: not even the eagle-piercing mind's Chill sword of thought: a woman’s agony Yet draws its beauty from the sacred sea. Hear how this fell. A stern Dissenter dwelt Lone in a fertile valley: lonely he, Lonelier the sharp-faced wife: each day they knelt In loveless worship: thrice a week they see