  Here is the street Made holy by the passing of her feet,— The little, tender feet, more sweet than myrrh, Which I have washed with tears for love of her. Here she has gone Until the very stones have taken on A glory from her passing, and the place Is tremulous with memory of her face. Here is the room That holds the light to lighten all my gloom. Beyond that blank white window she is sleeping Who hath my hope, my health, my fame, in keeping. A little peace Here for a little, ere my vigil cease And I turn homeward, shaken with the strife Of hope that struggles hopeless, sick for life. Surely the power That lifted me from darkness that one hour To a dear heaven whereof no word can tell |
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