She will be Mother of God! Secret He lies in her womb: And this mountain she hath trod Was later in strength than is she, Who before its mass might be Was chosen to bear her bliss: Conceived before mountains was she, Before any abyss. The might that dwells in her youth Is song to her heart and soul, Of joy that, as joy, is truth, That magnifies, and leaps With its jubilant glee and sweeps, O fairest, her breast, her throat, Her mouth, and magnanimous leaps, As the mountain-lark’s note! Across the old hills she springs, With God’s first dream as her crown: She scales them swift, for she brings Elizabeth news of grace. The charity of her face Is that of a lovely day, When the birds are singing news of grace, And the storms are away. ANOTHER LEADETH THEE In whose hands, O Son of God, Was Thy earthly Mission held? Not in Thine, that made earth’s sod, And the ocean as it welled From creation to the shore; Not in Thine, whose fingers’ lore Checked the tide with golden bars, Ruled the clouds and dinted stars-- Not in Thine, that made fresh leaves, And the flourished wheat for sheaves; Grapes that bubbled from a spring, Where the nightingale might sing From the blood of her wild throat; Not in Thine that struck her note; Maned the lion and wrought the lamb; Breathed on clay, “Be as I am!” And it stood before Thee fair, Thinking, loving, furnished rare, Like Thee, so beyond compare.... Not within Thy hands!--Behold, By a woman’s hand unrolled All the mystery sublime Of Thy ableness through Time! Thou, in precious Boyhood, knew For Thy Father what to do; And delayed Thyself to hear Questions and to answer clear To the Doctors’ chiming throng, Thou, admired, wert set among. Straight Thy Mission was begun, As the Jewish Rabbis spun Round Thy fetterless, sweet mind Problems no one had divined. But Thy Mother came that way, Who had sought Thee day by day, And her crystal voice reproved Thy new way with Thy beloved. In Thy wisdom-widened eyes Throbbed a radiance of surprise: But, Thy Mother having chidden, Thou in Nazareth wert hidden; And Thy Father’s Work begun Stayed full eighteen years undone, Till Thou camest on Thine hour, When Thy Mother loosed Thy power For Thy Father’s business, said, In a murmur softly spread, Rippling to a happy few, “What He says unto you do!” As the spring-time to a tree, Sudden spring she was to Thee, When her strange appeal began Thy stayed Mission unto man; Stayed but by her earlier blame, When from three days’ woe she came; Yet renewed when she gave sign “Son, they have not any wine!”