“Now when I was a boy I had as little as you to give me joy, And made as much of it, Made a world of many mansions Each great enough for God to dwell in; Yes, mansions of my little joy, Even as do you.” “Do we?” asked one thoughtfully, And, “What is mansion?” said another. “And who put the shadows in your face?” “And who took them away again?” “A great light put the shadows in my face.” Said he; “Because I hoarded it within, And boarded it up with sin Of my importance; Because I would not dance with joy of it Like a brook prancing to the sea, But in a deep dark well Sealed the living spirit up; What grace of it I could not keep I would not give away In play, like you.” “Do we?” asked one closer than the rest. “And who is Grace?” from another troubled breast. “And what is sin?” “Sin is a stone,” Dreamed Judas, his chin on a silky head, “Which when a seed is blown Upon it, harbors not The desire of a flower in the seed, But must be broken by the shower, And a deal of shining, And the bold clutch of cold; Grace is the flower Of desire in the seed, And sin is the stone that will not feed the flower.” “Here is a flower,” Said a Child with a daffodil. “And here is a stone, Will you show us how The stone won’t feed the flower?” “Yes, will you _now_?” chattered all. Judas took the stone in one hand, And in the other raised a black leather bag That sagged from the girdle at his waist. “There is little grace in either, As much in one as in the other,” Murmured Judas, hefting the leather bag. “Oh, I hear something jingle,” said a little blond brother. “Are they sins?” said his sister. “NO!” spoke a voice like the beat of a great wing On the air behind Judas. Then a white light shone upon him, Through him spread the light So that no shadow of him fell Like night around the Children. And Judas looked up, And saw Jesus standing there. “See, Children!” cried Jesus, with many smiles, “What the good Judas has brought you all these years; See, my dears, what he has saved all the stony hilly miles, For you!” And Jesus opened the black leather bag, And brought forth hands full of sweet bread Which he fed to the Children. Then Judas, his hands sticky With crumby kisses of the Little Ones, Went up the hill with the great Lover, Under the cover of His arm, All harm gone from him. The Reader Critic Yeats’s “Upon a Dying Lady” J., New York: