Passion Flowers (Watson)/Peace
Peace.
Come lift the filmy curtain where it falls
Athwart the shadowed portal of her room;
Her bird within its gilded cage still calls,
And may not fathom all this brooding gloom.
The place is thronged with roses, rare and white,
She loved them so, it seemeth meet and right
To fill the pulseless hand, and 'neath the feet
To make a snowy path of petals sweet,
Whose fragrance may as heralds mount on high,
And tell the angels that she draweth nigh.
Her prisoned soul hath burst its gilded bars;
It soareth higher than the moon, the stars,
And backward wings the sweetest gift of grace,
'The peace which passeth understanding,' to her face.
Athwart the shadowed portal of her room;
Her bird within its gilded cage still calls,
And may not fathom all this brooding gloom.
The place is thronged with roses, rare and white,
She loved them so, it seemeth meet and right
To fill the pulseless hand, and 'neath the feet
To make a snowy path of petals sweet,
Whose fragrance may as heralds mount on high,
And tell the angels that she draweth nigh.
Her prisoned soul hath burst its gilded bars;
It soareth higher than the moon, the stars,
And backward wings the sweetest gift of grace,
'The peace which passeth understanding,' to her face.