Blessed Among Women

To the Signora Cairoli     Blessed was she that bare,     Hidden in flesh most fair,     For all mens sake the likeness of all love;     Holy that virgins womb,     The old record saith, on whom     The glory of God alighted as a dove;     Blessed, who brought to gracious birth     The sweet-souled Saviour of a man-tormented earth.     But four times art thou blest,     At whose most holy breast     Four times a godlike soldier-saviour hung;     And thence a fourfold Christ     Given to be sacrificed     To the same cross as the same bosom clung;     Poured the same blood, to leave the same     Light on the many-folded mountain-skirts of fame.     Shall they and thou not live,     The children thou didst give     Forth of thine hands, a godlike gift, to death,     Through fire of death to pass     For her high sake that was     Thine and their mother, that gave all you breath?     Shall ye not live till time drop dead,     O mother, and each her childrens consecrated head?     Many brought gifts to take     For her loves supreme sake,     Life and lifes love, pleasure and praise and rest,     And went forth bare; but thou,     So much once richer, and now     Poorer than all these, more than these be blest;     Poorer so much, by so much given,     Than who gives earth for heavens sake, not for earths sake heaven.     Somewhat could each soul save,     What thing soever it gave,     But thine, mother, what has thy soul kept back?     None of thine all, not one,     To serve thee and be thy son,     Feed with love all thy days, lest one day lack;     All thy whole lifes love, thine hearts whole,     Thou hast given as who gives gladly, O thou the supreme soul.     The hearts pure flesh and blood,     The heaven thy motherhood,     The live lips, the live eyes, that lived on thee;     The hands that clove with sweet     Blind clutch to thine, the feet     That felt on earth their first way to thy knee;     The little laughter of mouths milk-fed,     Now open again to feed on dust among the dead;     The fair, strong, young mens strength,     Light of life-days and length,     And glory of earth seen under and stars above,     And years that bring to tame     Now the wild falcon fame,     Now, to stroke smooth, the dove-white breast of love;     The life unlived, the unsown seeds,     Suns unbeholden, songs unsung, and undone deeds.     Therefore shall mans love be     As an own son to thee,     And the worlds worship of thee for a child;     All thine own land as one     New-born, a nursing son,     All thine own people a new birth undefiled;     And all the unborn Italian time,     And all its glory, and all its works, thy seed sublime.     That henceforth no mans breath,     Saying Italy, but saith     In that most sovereign word thine equal name;     Nor can one speak of thee     But he saith Italy,     Seeing in two suns one co-eternal flame;     One heat, one heaven, one heart, one fire,     One light, one love, one benediction, one desire.     Blest above praise and prayer     And incense of mens air,     Thy place is higher than where such voices rise     As in mens temples make     Music for some vain sake,     This Gods or that Gods, in one weary wise;     Thee the soul silent, the shut heart,     The locked lips of the spirit praise thee that thou art.     Yea, for mans whole lifes length,     And with mans whole souls strength,     We praise thee, O holy, and bless thee, O mother of lights;     And send forth as on wings     The worlds hearts thanksgivings,     Song-birds to sing thy days through and thy nights;     And wrap thee around and arch thee above     With the air of benediction and the heaven of love.     And toward thee our unbreathed words     Fly speechless, winged as birds,     As the Indian flock, children of Paradise,     The winged things without feet,     Fed with Gods dew for meat,     That live in the air and light of the utter skies;     So fleet, so flying a footless flight,     With wings for feet love seeks thee, to partake thy sight.     Love like a clear sky spread     Bends over thy loved head,     As a new heaven bends over a new-born earth,     When the old nights womb is great     With young stars passionate     And fair new planets fiery-fresh from birth;     And moon-white here, there hot like Mars,     Souls that are worlds shine on thee, spirits that are stars.     Till the whole sky burns through     With heavens own heart-deep hue,     With passion-coloured glories of lit souls;     And thine above all names     Writ highest with lettering flames     Lightens, and all the old starriest aureoles     And all the old holiest memories wane,     And the old names of loves chosen, found in thy sight vain.     And crowned heads are discrowned,     And stars sink without sound,     And loves self for thy loves sake waxes pale     Seeing from his storied skies     In what new reverent wise     Thee Romes most highest, her sovereign daughters, hail;     Thee Portia, thee Veturia grey,     Thee Arria, thee Cornelia, Roman more than they.     Even all these as all we     Subdue themselves to thee,     Bow their heads haloed, quench their fiery fame;     Seen through dim years divine,     Their faint lights feminine     Sink, then spring up rekindled from thy flame;     Fade, then reflower and reillume     From thy fresh spring their wintering age with new-blown bloom.     To thy much holier head     Even theirs, the holy and dead,     Bow themselves each one from her heavenward height;     Each in her shining turn,     All tremble toward thee and yearn     To melt in thine their consummated light;     Till from days Capitolian dome     One glory of many glories lighten upon Rome.     Hush thyself, song, and cease,     Close, lips, and hold your peace;     What help hast thou, what part have ye herein?     But you, with sweet shut eyes,     Heart-hidden memories,     Dreams and dumb thoughts that keep what things have been     Silent, and pure of all words said,     Praise without song the living, without dirge the dead.     Thou, strengthless in these things,     Song, fold thy feebler wings,     And as a pilgrim go forth girt and shod,     And where the new graves are,     And where the sunset star,     To the pure spirit of man that men call God,     To the high soul of things, that is     Made of mens heavenlier hopes and mightier memories;     To the elements that make     For the souls living sake     This raiment of dead things, of shadow and trance,     That give us chance and time     Wherein to aspire and climb     And set our lifes work higher than time or chance     The old sacred elements, that give     The breath of life to days that die, to deeds that live;     To them, veiled gods and great,     There bow thee and dedicate     The speechless spirit in these thy weak words hidden;     And mix thy reverent breath     With holier air of death,     At the high feast of sorrow a guest unbidden,     Till with divine triumphal tears     Thou fill mens eyes who listen with a heart that hears.