Within the Veil

132 of 137 · 1 min of reading

(Lyra Eucharistica, second edition, 1865.)

She holds a lily in her hand,

Where long ranks of Angels stand,

A silver lily for her wand.

All her hair falls sweeping down;

Her hair that is a golden brown,

A crown beneath her golden crown.

Blooms a rose-bush at her knee,

Good to smell and good to see:

It bears a rose for her, for me;

Her rose a blossom richly grown, 10

My rose a bud not fully blown,

But sure one day to be mine own.

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End of part 132 of 137