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Alan Sullivan

(29 November 1868 - 6 August 1947 / Montreal)

Came Those Who Saw and Loved Her


Came those who saw and loved her,
She was so fair to see!
No whit their homage moved her,
So proud she was, so free;
But, ah, her soul was turning
With strange and mystic yearning,
With some divine discerning,
Beyond them all–to me!

As light to lids that quiver
Throughout a night forlorn,
She came–a royal giver–
My temple to adorn;
And my soul rose to meet her,
To welcome her, to greet her,
To name, proclaim, her sweeter
And dearer than the morn:

For her most rare devising
Was mixed no common clay,
Nor earthly form, disguising
Its frailty for a day;
But sun and shadow blended,
And fire and love descended
In one creation splendid
Nor less superb than they.

. . . . .

You–of the finer moulding,
You–of the clearer light,
Whose spirit life, unfolding,
Illumed my spirit's night,
Stoop not to end my dreaming,

[Page 286]

To stain the vision gleaming,
Or mar that glory, seeming
Too high for touch or sight.

Dear as the viewless portal
Of dream embroidered sleep,
Lift me to dreams immortal,
Till, purified, I leap
To hear the distant thunder
Of dark veils rent asunder,
And lose myself in wonder
At mysteries so deep.

Till, past the sombre meadows,
Tearless and unafraid,
Linked even in the shadows,
Our deathless souls have strayed;
And you, my soul's defender
O valiant one and tender,
Cry out to God's own splendour,
'Behold the man I made!'

Submitted: Wednesday, May 09, 2012
Edited: Wednesday, May 09, 2012

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