I am not proud--meek angels, ye invest New meeknesses to hear such utterance rest On mortal lips,--'I am not proud'--_not proud_! Albeit in my flesh God sent His Son, Albeit over Him my head is bowed As others bow before Him, still mine heart Bows lower than their knees. O centuries That roll, in vision, your futurities My future grave athwart,-- Whose murmurs seem to reach me while I keep Watch o'er this sleep,-- Say of me as the Heavenly said,--'Thou art The blessedest of women!'--blessedest, Not holiest, not noblest--no high name, Whose height misplaced may pierce me like a shame, When I sit meek in heaven! For me--for me-- God knows that I am feeble like the rest!-- I often wandered forth, more child than maiden, Among the midnight hills of Galilee, Whose summits looked heaven-laden; Listening to silence as it seemed to be God's voice, so soft yet strong--so fain to press Upon my heart as Heaven did on the height, And waken up its shadows by a light, And show its vileness by a holiness. Then I knelt down most silent like the night, Too self-renounced for fears, Raising my small face to the countless blue Whose stars did mix and tremble in my tears. God heard _them_ falling after--with His dew. So, seeing my corruption, can I see This Incorruptible now born of me-- This fair new Innocence no sun did chance To shine on (for even Adam was no child), Created from my nature, all defiled, This mystery from out mine ignorance-- Nor feel the blindness, stain, corruption, more Than others do, or _I_ did heretofore?-- Can hands wherein such burden pure has been, Not open with the cry 'unclean, unclean!' More oft than any else beneath the skies? Ah King, ah Christ, ah Son! The kine, the shepherds, the abased wise, Must all less lowly wait Than I, upon thy state!-- Sleep, sleep, my kingly One! Art Thou a King, then? Come, His universe, Come, crown me Him a king! Pluck rays from all such stars as never fling Their light where fell a curse. And make a crowning for this kingly brow!-- What is my word?--Each empyreal star Sits in a sphere afar In shining ambuscade: The child-brow, crowned by none, Keeps its unchildlike shade. Sleep, sleep, my crownless One! Unchildlike shade!--no other babe doth wear An aspect very sorrowful, as Thou.-- No small babe-smiles, my watching heart has seen, To float like speech the speechless lips between; No dovelike cooing in the golden air, No quick short joys of leaping babyhood. Alas, our earthly good In heaven thought evil, seems too good for Thee: Yet, sleep, my weary One!