Mary on Her Way to the Temple
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| Scarce lay the blossoms of her golden hair Warm as a leveret in her mother's hand When on the wall her shadow gliding there Haunted her young years with its stern demand. She coveted no worldly vanity As the tall steps she climbed with girlish grace, Approaching unperturbed the galaxy Of aged priests who kept the holy place. She looked not back. There on the stone floor lay The apple that her father gave as token Of tenderness for all her tenderness. She entered joyfully that blessed day The templed walls, herself a shrine unbroken, To wait till time shall reach its fruitfulness.
Ruth Schaumann
Edwin Buers, translator. Sr. M. Therese. I Sing of a Maiden. New York: Macmillan Company, 1947. |
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