Poem by Alice Meynell

To the Mother of Christ the Son of Man

        We too (one cried), we too,
We the unready, the perplexed, the cold,
Must shape the Eternal in our thoughts anew,
        Cherish, possess, enfold.

        Thou sweetly, we in strife.
It is our passion to conceive Him thus
In mind, in sense, within our house of life;
        That seed is locked in us.

        We must affirm our Son
From the ambiguous Nature's difficult speech,
Gather in darkness that resplendent One,
        Close as our grasp can reach.

        Nor shall we ever rest
From this our task. An hour sufficed for thee,
Thou innocent! He lingers in the breast
        Of our humanity.

1. Free Will
2. The Two Questions
3. To Silence
4. To Tintoretto in Venice
5. In Sleep

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