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So is our old Youth our young Age’s making:

So rich in time our final debt he pays.

Then with your quite young arms do you me hold

And I will still be young when all the World’s grown old.

Mortality is but the Stuff you wear

To show the better on the imperfect sight.

Your home is surely with the changeless light

Of which you are the daughter and the heir.

For as you pass, the natural life of things

Proclaims the Resurrection: as you pass

Remembered summer shines across the grass

And somewhat in me of the immortal sings.

You were not made for memory, you are not

Youth’s accident I think but heavenly more;

Moulding to meaning slips my pen’s poor blot

And opening wide that long forbidden door

Where stands the Mother of God, your exemplar.

How beautiful, how beautiful you are!

Not for the luckless buds our roots may bear

Now all in bloom, now seared and cankered lying

Will I entreat you, lest they should compare

Foredoomed humanity with the fall of flowers.

Hold thou with me the chaste communion rare