So Mothers Have God's License To Be

I Tell You, Hopeless Grief Is Passionless.

Think, In Mounting Higher, The Angels Would Press On Us, And Aspire To Drop Some Golden Orb Of Perfect Song Into Our Deep, Dear Silence.

God Keeps A Niche In Heaven, To Hold Our Idols; And Albeit He Brake Them To Our Faces, And Denied That Our Close Kisses Should Impair Their White,-- I Know We Shall Behold Them Raised, Complete, The Dust Swept From Their Beauty, Glorified, New Memnons Singing In The Great God-light.

Yet How Proud We Are, In Daring To Look Down Upon Ourselves!

And Each Man Stands With His Face In The Light. Of His Own Drawn Sword, Ready To Do What A Hero Can.