To One Consecrated

Your paths were all unknown to us: We were so far away from you, We mixed in thought your spirit thus— With whiteness, stars of gold, and dew. The mighty mother nourished you: Her breath blew from her mystic bowers: Their elfin glimmer floated through The pureness of your shadowy hours. The mighty mother made you wise; Gave love that clears the hidden ways: Her glooms were glory to your eyes; Her darkness but the Fount of Days. She made all gentleness in you, And beauty radiant as the morn's: She made our joy in yours, then threw Upon your head a crown of thorns. Your eyes are filled with tender light, For those whose eyes are dim with tears; They see your brow is crowned and bright, But not its ring of wounding spears.