Poem 57

58 of 73 · 1 min of reading

. . . . . . . .

HOPE holds to Christ the mind's own mirror out

To take His lovely likeness more and more.

It will not well, so she would bring about

An ever brighter burnish than before

And turns to wash it from her welling eyes

And breathes the blots off all with sighs on sighs.

Her glass is blest but she as good as blind

Holds till hand aches and wonders what is there;

Her glass drinks light, she darkles down behind,

All of her glorious gainings unaware.

. . . . . . . .

I told you that she turned her mirror dim

Betweenwhiles, but she sees herself not Him.

. . . . . . . .

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End of part 58 of 73