And happy Fulda venerates this day Her martyr's gravestone. Next, to Cuthbert drew Three maidens hand in hand, lovely as Truth, Trustful, though shy: their thoughts, when hidden most, Wore but a semilucid veil, as when Through gold-touched crystal of the lime new-leaved On April morns the symmetry looks forth Of branch and bough distinct. Smiling, they put At last their question: 'Tell us, man of God, What life, of lives that women lead, is best; Then show us forth in parables that life!' He answered: 'Three; for each of these is best: First comes the Maiden's: she who lives it well Serves God in marble chapel white as snow, His priestess--His alone. Cold flowers each morn She culls ere sunrise by the stainless stream, And lays them on that chapel's altar-stone, And sings her matins there. Her feet are swift All day in labours 'mid the vales below, Cheering sad hearts: each evening she returns To that high fane, and there her vespers sings; Then sleeps, and dreams of heaven.' With witching smile The youngest of that beauteous triad cried: 'That life is sweetest! I would be that maid!' Cuthbert resumed: 'The Christian Wife comes next: She drinks a deeper draught of life: round her In ampler sweep its sympathies extend: An infant's cry has knocked against her heart, Evoking thence that human love wherein Self-love hath least. Through infant eyes a spirit Hath looked upon her, crying, "I am thine! Creature from God--dependent yet on thee!" Thenceforth she knows how greatness blends with weakness; Reverence, thenceforth, with pity linked, reveals To her the pathos of the life of man, A thing divine, and yet at every pore Bleeding from crowned brows. A heart thus large Hath room for many sorrows. What of that? Its sorrow is its dowry's noblest part. She bears it not alone. Such griefs, so shared-- Sickness, and fear, and vigils lone and long, Waken her heart to love sublimer far Than ecstasies of youth could comprehend; Lift her perchance to heights serene as those The Ascetic treadeth.' 'I would be that wife!' Thus cried the second of those maidens three: Yet who that gazed upon her could have guessed Creature so soft could bear a heart so brave? She seemed that goodness which was beauteous too; Virtue at once, and Virtue's bright reward; Delight that lifts, not lowers us; made for heaven;-- Made too to change to heaven some brave man's hearth. She added thus: 'Of lives that women lead Tell us the third!' Gently the Saint replied: 'The third is Widowhood--a wintry sound; And yet, for her who widow is indeed, That winter something keeps of autumn's gold,