Within.
By Susan Coolidge (Sarah Chauncey Woolsey)
Could my heart hold another one?
I cannot tell.
Sometimes it seems an ample dome,
Sometimes a cell,
Sometimes a temple filled with saints,
Serene and fair,
Whose eyes are pure from mortal taints
All lilies are.
Sometimes a narrow shrine, in which
One precious fare
Smiles ever from its guarded niche,
With deathless grace.
Sometimes a nest, where weary things,
And weal; and shy,
Are brooded under mother wings
Till they can fly.
And then a palace, with wide rooms
Adorned and dressed,
Where eager slaves pour sweet perfumes
For each new guest.
Whiche'er it be, I know always
Within that door--
Whose latch it is not mine to raise--
Blows evermore,
With breath of balm upon its wing,
A soft, still air,
Which makes each closely folded thing
Look always fair.
My darlings, do you feel me near,
As every day
Into this hidden place and dear
I take my way?
Always you stand in radiant guise,
Always I see
A noiseless welcome in the eyes
You turn on me.
And, whether I come soon or late,
Whate'er befall,
Always within the guarded gate
I find you all.