O DEAREST my sister, my sister who sits by the hearth, <br />With lids softly drooping, or lifted up saintly and calm, <br />With household hands folded, or opened for help and for balm, <br />And lips, ripe and dewy, or ready for innocent mirth,-- <br />Thy life rises upwards to heaven everyday like a psalm <br />Which the singer sings sleeping, and waked, would half wondering say-- <br />'I sang not. Nay, how could I sing thus?--I only do pray.' <br /> <br />O gentlest my sister, who walks in at every dark door <br />Whether bolted or open, unheedful of welcome or frown; <br />But entering silent as sunlight, and there sitting down, <br />Illumines the damp walls and shines pleasant shapes on the floor, <br />And unlocks dim chambers where low lies sad Hope, without crown, <br />Uplifts her from sackcloth and ashes and black mourning weeds, <br />Re-crowns and re-clothes her.--Then, on to the next door that needs. <br /> <br />O blessed my sister, whose spirit so wholly dost live <br />In loving, that even the word 'loved,' with its rapturous sound, <br />Rings faintly, like earth-tunes when angels are hymning around: <br />Whose eyes say: 'Less happy methinks to receive than to give.'-- <br />So whatsoever we give, may One give to thee without bound, <br />All best gifts--all dearest gifts--whether His right hand do close <br />Or open--He holds it forever above thee;--He knows!<br /><br />Dinah Maria Mulock Craik<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/eudoxia-second-picture/
