  And victory is forgotten in the peace Of certain hours gone by in helplessness, As on a deathbed dumb to good and ill. These are its treasures. Nor was silence all Griselda's ointment. Hard by the sea-wall, Where daily her steps turned fresh peace to find, A convent stood, inviting to the mind. Here she found entrance at the chapel gate, And knelt in prayer half-inarticulate, Bowed to the earth. For patron saints it had The Marys three—"two virtuous, and one bad," Griselda thought, "like her own self"—who came In flight together from Jerusalem, And landed there; and these in her great need, She suppliant asked for her soul's daily bread, Using all fondest words her lips could frame, To speak her secret wishes without blame. Six candlesticks she vowed, to each a pair, So they would listen to and grant her prayer. She bowed and begged like any peasant's bride, For what? for whom? she hardly could explain Even to her, the dear St. Magdalen. "And yet," she argued, "she at least will know And understand me if no other do." All this was folly, but it comforted And gave her strength. Then with a calmer head, If not a calmer heart, she turned once more From love to life. Her first strong grief was o'er. |
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