So circled lives she with Love's holy light, That from the shade of self she walketh free: The garden of her soul still keepeth she An Eden where the snake did never enter; She hath a natural, wise sincerity, A simple truthfulness, and these have lent her A dignity as moveless as the center: So that no influence of earth can stir Her steadfast courage, nor can take away The holy peacefulness, which, night and day, Unto her queenly soul doth minister. Most gentle is she; her large charity (An all unwitting, childlike gift to her) Not freer is to give than meek to bear; And, though herself not unacquaint with care, Hath in her heart wide room for all that be-- Her heart that hath no secrets of its own, But open as an eglantine full blown. Cloudless forever is her brow serene, Speaking calm hope and trust within her, whence Welleth a noiseless spring of patience, That keepeth all her life so fresh, so green And full of holiness, that every look, The greatness of her woman's soul revealing, Unto me bringeth blessing, and a feeling As when I read in God's own holy book. A graciousness in giving that doth make The small gift greatest, and a sense most meek Of worthiness, that doth not fear to take From others, but which always fears to speak Its thanks in utterance, for the giver's sake; The deep religion of a thankful heart, Which rests instinctively in heaven's clear law With a full peace, that never can depart From its own steadfastness;--a holy awe For holy things,--not those which men call holy, But such as are revealed to the eyes Of a true woman's soul bent down and lowly Before the face of daily mysteries: A love that blossoms soon, but ripens slowly To the full goldenness of fruitful prime, Enduring with a firmness that defies All shallow tricks of circumstance and time, By a sure insight knowing where to cling, And where it clingeth never withering: These are Irene's dowry, which no fate Can shake from their serene, deep-builded state. In-seeing sympathy is hers, which chasteneth No less than loveth, scorning to be bound With fear of blame, and yet which ever hasteneth To pour the balm of kind looks on the wound, If they be wounds which such sweet teaching makes, Giving itself a pang for others' sakes: No want of faith, that chills with sidelong eye, Hath she; no jealousy, no Levite pride That passeth by upon the other side: For in her soul there never dwelt a lie. Right from the hand of God her spirit came Unstained, and she hath ne'er forgotten whence It came, nor wandered far from thence, But labored to keep her still the same, Near to her place of birth, that she may not Soil her white raiment with an earthly spot.