Edwin Arlington Robinson

The Gift of God

 Blessed with a joy that only she
 Of all alive shall ever know,
 She wears a proud humility
 For what it was that willed it so -
 That her degree should be so great
 Among the favoured of the Lord
 That she may scarcely bear the weight
 Of her bewildering reward.

 As one apart, immune, alone,
 Or featured for the shining ones,
 And like to none that she has known
 Of other women's other sons -
 The firm fruition of her need,
 He shines anointed; and he blurs
 Her vision, till it seems indeed
 A sacrilege to call him hers.

 She fears a little for so much
 Of what is best, and hardly dares
 To think of him as one to touch
 With aches, indignities, and cares;
 She sees him rather at the goal,
 Still shining; and her dream foretells
 The proper shining of a soul
 Where nothing ordinary dwells.

 Perchance a canvass of the town
 Would find him far from flags and shouts,
 And leave him only the renown
 Of many smiles and many doubts;
 Perchance the crude and common tongue
 Would havoc strangely with his worth;
 But she, with innocence unwrung,
 Would read his name around the earth.

 And others, knowing how this youth
 Would shine, if love could make him great,
 When caught and tortured for the truth
 Would only writhe and hesitate;
 While she, arranging for his days
 What centuries could not fulfil,
 Transmutes him with her faith and praise,
 And has him shining where she will.

 She crowns him with her gratefulness,
 And says again that life is good;
 And should the gift of God be less
 In him than in her motherhood,
 His fame, though vague, will not be small
 As upward through her dream he fares,
 Half clouded with a crimson fall
 Of roses thrown on marble stairs.