5 ST. MAGDALENE

Must I abide forever in this place Of bloodless folk, amid the vain outcries Of fools that deem me holy, full of grace, And skillful in foresaying prophecies? Thou wouldst not know me in this wrinkled guise— How couldst thou, O belovèd? I am she Thou knewest those mad years in Galilee When we were young. And now thy tale is told, And I await death, shivering wretchedly, A pitiful poor woman, shrunk and old. They call thee god. Paul, when his choleric face Enkindles from his ever-blazing eyes, Swears thou art god, and blusters of a place— A city that the man calls Paradise,— Wherein thou reignest. Dear, am I not wise That deem thee worthy of idolatry. Yet man,—man whom I loved, and verily Man whom I love, for all that I behold Thy face no more, beloved, and I be A pitiful poor woman, shrunk and old. Yet westerly, where golden clouds enlace Earth’s rim with heaven’s, kindlier kingdoms rise; For there the fortunate Far Islands face The ends of Ocean, and the sacrifice Burns ever to Dis’ Queen, and no man sighs In vain for quietude,—where even we May win such grace of grave Persephonê As to obliterate woes manifold In dragging days that fretted sordidly A pitiful poor woman, shrunk and old. Man whom I loved, my heart cries out to thee, All that thou wert I loved!—and so, let be To dream of maids immortal arms enfold, Nor rank with Dryopê or Danaë A pitiful poor woman, shrunk and old.