The Chapel

The vanished women of my race, The daughters of a moldering year, Set often in this quiet place Their votive tapers burning clear.

The patient waxen wreaths they wove, They hung before the Virgin’s shrine; To them it was a work of love, José decrees it task of mine!

They glimmer where a portrait swings-- Women as proud and white as death-- Ah, they could mold those lifeless things; They had no blood, they had no breath.

“For holiness and meekness strive” (José would have me pray their prayers). Now, Mary, warm and all alive, You shall not think me child of theirs.

So many waxen prayers you heard! If I should heap your altar high With boughs that knew the nesting bird, With flowers that bloomed against the sky,

And let my wondering soul ascend In vivid question, swift surmise-- I think your shadowy face would bend, And look at me with startled eyes.