by Katharine Lee Bates
The blue sky at its deepest was pricked by one keen star
That flashed a signal to the moon's uplifted scimitar,
And like a quarrel in a dream we spake with angry breath,
Till in that place of shadows our Love was done to death.
God hung the dawn with carmine and pillared it with gold
To welcome in our new Love, the angel of the old.
With lips still pale from requiems and litanies she came,
But home-sweet lights were in her eyes, -- the same, and not the same.
All that was mortal of her, the passion, the caprice,
We had wrapt in cloud-white linen and laid away at peace;
But the living Spirit stood within the temple of the sun,
Her agony accomplished, her consecration won.
Source:Yellow Clover: A Book Of Remembrance
E. P. Dutton & Company, New York