The Young Mother

In dreadful times of tears and war
She sails, a little fixèd star,
Or like a little ship she glides
With gentle winds and favouring tides
Up to the harbour bar.

Wrapped in all mild tranquillities
She muses: inward gaze her eyes;
And lest she slip upon a stone
Gabriel or some shining one
Guards her high destinies.

No rumour reaches her at all,
Beyond her safe encompassing wall,
Of a mad world that slays and slays:
She sees a little one that plays
And sleeps at evenfall.

She is in the House of Life: and where
She goes the angels bend to her,
A little secret garden-close,
Sweet with the lily and the rose,
With frankincense and myrrh.