The day is broad awake--the first long beam Of level sun finds Sister Marta's face, And trembling there it lights a timid smile Upon the lips that say so many prayers, And have no words for hate and none for love. But when she passes where her prayers have gone, Will God not smile a little sadly then, And send her back with gentle words to earth That she may hold a child against her breast And feel its little hands upon her hair? We weep before the Blessed Mother's shrine, To think upon her sorrows, but her joys What nun could ever know a tithing of? The precious hours she watched above His sleep Were worth the fearful anguish of the end. Yea, lack of love is bitterest of all; Yet I have felt what thing it is to know One thought forever, sleeping or awake; To say one name whose sweetness grows so strange That it might work a spell on those who weep; To feel the weight of love upon my heart So heavy that the blood can scarcely flow. Love comes to some unlooked-for, quietly, As when at twilight, with a soft surprise, We see the new-born crescent in the blue; And unto others love is planet-like, A cold and placid gleam that wavers not, And there are those who wait the call of love Expectant of his coming, as we watch To see the east grow pallid ere the moon Lifts up her flower-like head against the night. Love came to me as comes a cruel sun, That on some rain-drenched morning, when the leaves Are bowed beneath their clinging weight of drops, Tears through the mist, and burns with fervent heat The tender grasses and the meadow flowers; Then suddenly the heavy clouds close in And through the dark the thunder's muttering Is drowned amid the dashing of the rain. But I have seen my day grow calm again. The sun sets slowly on a peaceful world, And sheds a quiet light across the fields. Guenevere I was a queen, and I have lost my crown; A wife, and I have broken all my vows; A lover, and I ruined him I loved:-- There is no other havoc left to do. A little month ago I was a queen, And mothers held their babies up to see When I came riding out of Camelot. The women smiled, and all the world smiled too. And now, what woman's eyes would smile on me? I still am beautiful, and yet what child Would think of me as some high, heaven-sent thing, An angel, clad in gold and miniver? The world would run from me, and yet am I No different from the queen they used to love. If water, flowing silver over stones, Is forded, and beneath the horses' feet Grows turbid suddenly, it clears again, And men will drink it with no thought of harm. Yet I am branded for a single fault. I was the flower amid a toiling world, Where people smiled to see one happy thing, And they were proud and glad to raise me high; They only asked that I should be right fair, A little kind, and gowned wondrously, And surely it were little praise to me If I had pleased them well throughout my life.