EACH TO HER OWN.

ONE took me o a skyward-climbing vine,
     Behind whose pointed leaves a poet sang
     Soul-stealingly, so that stones outrang
In praise of her, and hearts that ache and pine
Felt through their tears a radiance divine

     From farthest stars, until within them sprang
     Responsive holiness that dulled the pang—
And said, “Her matchless power might be thine.”

Then sharp I called to my light-thoughted muse,
     Running with brook-like rapture through the marsh,

          Her berry-scented garments stained and torn,
And clothed her in white robe and careful shoes,
     And told her heaven was fair and earth was harsh,
          While she with hanging head looked all forlorn. [Page 177]