At Mission Purissima

The hands are dust that piled these rough brown walls, Yet still the sunshine falls Like a touch warm with love upon the gilded cross, Whose yearly loss By wind and rain has worn its gilt away, As youth, which cannot stay When life frets hard upon its shining stuff: Yet ’tis enough That once the cross was gold, the heart alive to joy. The dark-faced altar boy Still lights the candles at the Virgin’s feet; And strange and sad and sweet The air is dim with long-dead incense-smoke: Wan Joseph draws his cloak, Faded and torn, still ’round the Holy Child; And woman-wise and mild Pure Mary bends her soft eyes to the floor, Where from the far-off door, Through which the sky looks and the green-branched trees, On bended, praying knees Sad penitents have worn a weary trail There to the altar rail.

Down that old road of pain a woman glides; The dim place hides Her eyes that plead and lips that wince and pray: The saints that stay Up on the painted walls in the sweet dusk Of sandal-smoke and musk, And scent of withering altar flowers, and holy myrrh, Look down on her With pity--for a saint must understand. In one slim hand She bears a small, rude-shapen earthen jar, Whose roughness cannot mar The rare, green grace of the mimosa tree Whose lace-like tracery Of leaf and stem she touches as she prays. Suppliant she lays Her fingers gently, and each little leaf, Feeling her grief, Folds to its green mate like two hands in prayer: The branches share Her heart’s hurt tremble, as if they would plead For her at need. Above the candles in her deep-niched place Pure Mary’s face, Compassionate and tender, bids her speak. Entreating, passion-weak, The slow words come: “O Queen of Heaven! Who yet on earth was even Woman as I--hear this my woman’s plea; Grant this to me,-- Thou in whose white breast a woman’s heart hath beat. O Pure! O Sweet! Keep me, thy little one, still clean and pure. Let me endure All pain of life, so that thou make me strong. Hold me from wrong; And as these leaves that tremble over-much Close at my touch, Shut thou my heart against this evil love. As the gray dove Beside the water pool would flee the snare, Keep me aware How he who seeks seeks not my soul at all, Which flies beyond his call; But for his careless joy one idle hour Would bind his power Like Eve’s snake round me, laughing as he crushed.” There in the hushed, Sweet darkness, pierced by points of candle light Like stars at night, She left the green mimosa at the Virgin’s feet, Continually to entreat Her soul’s safety--then across the worn old floor She walked, with face transfigured, to the door.