I have laid hold of hospitality coldly and greedily in my time, but this night at least, I was thankful. And as I turned my head in a new direction I was thankful most of all for the unexpected presence of the Mother of God. There was her silvery statue near the foot of my bed, the moonlight pouring straight in upon it through the wide window. It spoke to me of peace and virginity. And I thought how many times in Babylon I had gone into the one ever open church to look on the crowned image of the Star of the Sea. Though I am no servitor of Rome I have only adoration for virginity, be it carved in motionless stone, or in marble that breathes and sings. A long long time I lay awake while the image glimmered and glowed. The clock downstairs would strike its shrill bell, and in my heart a censer swung. VIII MORNING There was a pounding on the door and a shout. It was the young husband’s voice. “It’s time to feed your face.” They were at the breakfast table when I came down. My cherished memory of the group is the picture of them with bowed heads, the grandfather, with hand upraised, saying grace. It was ornate, and by no means brief. It was rich with authority. I wanted to call in all the mocking pagans of the nation, to be subdued before that devotion. I wanted to say: “Behold, little people, some great hearts still pray.” I stood in the door and made shift to bow my head. Yet my head was not so much bowed but I could see Gretchen-Cecilia and her mother timidly cross themselves. In my heart I said “Amen” to the old man’s prayer. But I love every kind of devotion, so I crossed myself in the Virgin’s name. The tale had as well end here as anywhere. On the road there are endless beginnings and few conclusions. For instance I gathered from the conversation at the breakfast table they were not sure whether they would move to the city or not. They were for the most part silent and serene. There were pleasant farewells a little later. Gretchen-Cecilia, when the others were not looking, gave me, at my earnest solicitation, a tiny curl from the head of her doll that had truly truly hair. I walked on and on, toward the ends of the infinite earth, though I had found this noble temple, this shrine not altogether made with hands. I again consecrated my soul to the august and Protean Creator, maker of all religions, dweller in all clean temples, master of the perpetual road. THAT MEN MIGHT SEE AGAIN THE ANGEL-THRONG WOULD we were blind with Milton, and we sang With him of uttermost Heaven in a new song, That men might see again the angel-throng, And newborn hopes, true to this age would rise, Pictures to make men weep for paradise, All glorious things beyond the defeated grave. God smite us blind, and give us bolder wings; God help us to be brave. Printed in the United States of America. The following pages contain advertisements of books by the same author. _VERSE BY THE SAME AUTHOR_ The Congo and Other Poems