WITHIN.

Could my heart hold another one? I cannot tell. Sometimes it seems an ample dome, Sometimes a cell,

Sometimes a temple filled with saints, Serene and fair, Whose eyes are pure from mortal taints All lilies are.

Sometimes a narrow shrine, in which One precious fare Smiles ever from its guarded niche, With deathless grace.

Sometimes a nest, where weary things, And weal; and shy, Are brooded under mother wings Till they can fly.

And then a palace, with wide rooms Adorned and dressed, Where eager slaves pour sweet perfumes For each new guest.

Whiche'er it be, I know always Within that door— Whose latch it is not mine to raise— Blows evermore,

With breath of balm upon its wing, A soft, still air, Which makes each closely folded thing Look always fair.

My darlings, do you feel me near, As every day Into this hidden place and dear I take my way?

Always you stand in radiant guise, Always I see A noiseless welcome in the eyes You turn on me.

And, whether I come soon or late, Whate'er befall, Always within the guarded gate I find you all.