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• Sweet name, & strangest friend I ever knew,
• Rich Peace of God—& is the promise true?
• Knowest thou the land in very truth where grows
• The purple pansy & celestial rose?
• Ah me! I also have a lovely name,
• And for my own those gladdening flowers claim.
• They called me Joy: they knew not what they did,
• Nor what dark marvels in the infant hid.
• Now, should they not be friends to one another,
• 10Those happy names—a Sister & a brother?
• But marvels dwell within this thrice-sealed heart,
• And thou remainest in a place apart.
• My sacred mysteries thou mayst not see,
• Nor can I fly across the gulf to thee.

• Fair Son of God, most beautiful to me,
• If thou art clothed in sincerity,
• As are the poets who beside me walk
• And comfort me with soul-maintaining talk,
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• But come not glorious to the outward sight
• 20With golden cups & robes of mystic light.
• Oh! Son of God! A daughter of this life,
• A traveller thro' the realms of sin & strufe,
• Yet looking upward with beseeching eyes,
• And fervent faith that never—never dies—
• What more! Art thou beyond the poets wise,
• With calmer words & holier exstasies?
• More faithful art thou in the dangerous hour?
• Fraternal more: more gentle in thy power?
• More just in soul, more burning in thy zeal
• 30To raise the fallen & the wounded heal?
• Now, if I gave my hand & walked with thee
• Would I thenceforth more free & vigorous be?
• Would grander angels bend their pitying eyes,
• And read me lessons thro' the varying skies?
• I think not so. Then why hast thou the power
• With name & look so piercing at this hour—
• The middle hour to me of life's short day—
• Away—for all the rest I watch & pray.

• Poor Child—the sacred steps thou didst descend,
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• 40They are too subtle for the heavenly way.
• I will not walk beside their singing stream,
• Nor trust the spirits, tho' they harmless seem.
• And warrior Angels frowned & said to me:
• “'Tis but a dream: thou must be strong & free.”

• So fare thee well, sweet Peace—a sacred one
• In very truth, whose Christian work is done
• With daily smiles, where we should weep & faint,
• In fond remembrance of some placid Saint
• And the Divine Consoler—Holy Child—
• 50Telling strange histories of the undefiled
• In presence of the herd corrupt & vain.
• Go forth & purify—go forth again,
• And soothe the souls that lie in sin & pain.
• And, from the distance, sitting far from thee,
• Send sometimes benediction unto me.

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