O woman whose familiar face I hold

O woman whose familiar face I hold In my most sacred thought as in a shrine, Who in my memories art become divine— Dost thou remember now those years of old When out of all thine own life thou didst mould This life and breathe thy heart in this of mine, Winning, for faith in that fair work of thine, To rest and be in heaven?—Alas, behold!— Another woman coming after thee Hath had small pity,—with a wanton kiss Hath quite consumed my heart and ruined this The life that was thy work: O, Mother, see; Thou hast lived all in vain, done all amiss; Come down from heaven again, and die with me!