Page:Poems (IA poemsthomrich).pdf/25

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13

Where you have made your shrine
They are away to.
They have struck Heaven's tent,
And gone to cover you:
Whereso you keep your state
Heaven is pitched over you!
Seraphim,
Her to hymn,
Might leave their portals,
And at my feet learn
The harping of mortals!

V.
She that is Heaven's Queen
Her title borrows,
For that she pitiful
Beareth our sorrows.
So thou, Regina mî,
Spes infirmorum;
With all our grieving crowned
Mater dolorum!
Seraphim,
Her to hymn,
Might leave their portals;
And at my feet learn
The harping of mortals!

VI.
Yet, envious coveter
Of other's grieving!

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