Young Mary， loitering once her garden way，

    Felt a warm splendour grow in the April day，

    As wine that blushes water through. And soon，

    Out of the gold air of the afternoon，

    One knelt before her： hair he had， or fire，

    Bound back above his ears with golden wire，

    Baring the eager marble of his face.

    Not man's nor woman's was the immortal¹ grace

    Rounding the limbs beneath that robe of white，

    And lighting² the proud eyes with changeless light，

    Incurious. Calm as his wings， and fair，

    That presence filled the garden.

    She stood there，

    Saying， "What would you， Sir？"

    He told his word，

    "Blessed art thou of women！" Half she heard，

    Hands folded and face bowed， half long had known，

    The message of that clear and holy tone，

    That fluttered hot sweet sobs³ about her heart；

    Such serene⁴ tidings moved such human smart.

    Her breath came quick as little flakes⁵ of snow.

    Her hands crept up her breast. She did but know

    It was not hers. She felt a trembling stir

    Within her body， a will too strong for her

    That held and filled and mastered all. With eyes

    Closed， and a thousand soft short broken sighs，

    She gave submission⁶； fearful， meek⁷， and glad. . . .

    She wished to speak. Under her breasts she had

    Such multitudinous burnings， to and fro，

    And throbs⁸ not understood； she did not know

    If they were hurt or joy for her； but only

    That she was grown strange to herself， half lonely，

    All wonderful， filled full of pains to come

    And thoughts she dare not think， swift thoughts and dumb，

    Human， and quaint⁹， her own， yet very far，

    Divine， dear， terrible， familiar . . .

    Her heart was faint for telling； to relate

    Her limbs' sweet treachery， her strange high estate，

    Over and over， whispering， half revealing，

    Weeping； and so find kindness to her healing.

    'Twixt tears and laughter， panic hurrying her，

    She raised her eyes to that fair messenger.

    He knelt unmoved， immortal； with his eyes

    Gazing beyond her， calm to the calm skies；

    Radiant， untroubled in his wisdom， kind.

    His sheaf of lilies stirred not in the wind.

    How should she， pitiful with mortality，

    Try the wide peace of that felicity

    With ripples¹⁰ of her perplexed¹¹ shaken heart，

    And hints of human ecstasy¹²， human smart，

    And whispers of the lonely weight she bore，

    And how her womb within was hers no more

    And at length hers？

    Being tired， she bowed her head；

    And said， "So be it！"

    The great wings were spread

    Showering glory on the fields， and fire.

    The whole air， singing， bore him up， and higher，

    Unswerving， unreluctant. Soon he shone

    A gold speck¹³ in the gold skies； then was gone.

    The air was colder， and grey. She stood alone.

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