What if the sun should keep his gold? The rich moon lock her silver up? What if the gold-clad buttercup Became a miser, mean and old? Ah, me! the coffins are so true In all accounts, the shrouds so thin, That down there you might sew and sew, Nor ever sew one pocket in. And all that you can hold of lands Down there, below the grass, down there, Will only be that little share You hold in your two dust-full hands. XII. She comes! she comes! The stony floor Speaks out! And now the rusty door At last has just one word this day, With mute religious lips, to say. She comes! she comes! And lo, her face Is upward, radiant, fair as prayer! So pure here in this holy place, Where holy peace is everywhere. Her upraised face, her face of light And loveliness, from duty done, Is like a rising orient sun That pushes back the brow of night. How brave, how beautiful is truth! Good deeds untold are like to this. But fairest of all fair things is A pious maiden in her youth: A pious maiden as she stands Just on the threshold of the years That throb and pulse with hopes and fears, And reaches God her helpless hands. How fair is she! How fond is she! Her foot upon the threshold there. Her breath is as a blossomed tree,-- This maiden mantled in her hair! Her hair, her black, abundant hair, Where night, inhabited all night And all this day, will not take flight, But finds content and houses there. Her hands are clasped, her two small hands; They hold the holy book of prayer Just as she steps the threshold there, Clasped downward where she silent stands. XIII. Once more she lifts her lowly face, And slowly lifts her large, dark eyes Of wonder; and in still surprise She looks full forward in her place. She looks full forward on the air Above the tomb, and yet below The fruits of gold, the blooms of snow, As looking--looking anywhere. She feels--she knows not what she feels; It is not terror, is not fear, But there is something that reveals A presence that is near and dear. She does not let her eyes fall down, They lift against the far profound: Against the blue above the town Two wide-winged vultures circle round. Two brown birds swim above the sea,-- Her large eyes swim as dreamily And follow far, and follow high, Two circling black specks in the sky. One forward step,--the closing door Creaks out, as frightened or in pain; Her eyes are on the ground again-- Two men are standing close before. "My love," sighs one, "my life, my all!" Her lifted foot across the sill Sinks down,--and all things are so still You hear the orange blossoms fall. But fear comes not where duty is, And purity is peace and rest; Her cross is close upon her breast, Her two hands clasp hard hold of this.