Page:Roses in Rain, by Lilian Wooster Greaves, 1910.pdf/14

 Our sweet Saint Serious, with white wings furled, Treads with her tender feet this thorn-grown world. So pure is she, we tremble lest she see And judge severely our iniquity; And yet so gentle, when her lips reprove, We know it not, but deem she spoke of love. So calm, we think her like still mountain lakes, But ’tis a river’s mighty course she takes, And bears us onward in her spirit’s course Till our weak streams are blended with her force. So luminous her soul with light divine, We think no earthly thing for her can shine; Yet in the mirror of her memory fair We gaze, and see ourselves reflected there. Our lives, our names, our hopes and doubts and cares Enlist her sympathy and fill her prayers.

Angel! still keep those gleaming pinions furled; And tread with us this weary, thorn-grown world. Still let thy life its onward journey take, Strong as a river, calm as mountain lake. Still love us, sweet Saint Serious, and we Shall stronger, better be because of thee,