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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=115906" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Mary and Gabriel</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Young Mary, loitering once her garden way,<br>Felt a warm splendour grow in the April day,<br>As wine that blushes water through. And soon,<br>Out of the gold air of the afternoon,<br>One knelt before her: hair he had, or fire,<br>Bound back above his ears with golden wire,<br>Baring the eager marble of his face.<br>Not man's nor woman's was the immortal grace<br>Rounding the limbs beneath that robe of white,<br>And lighting the proud eyes with changeless light,<br>Incurious. Calm as his wings, and fair,<br>That presence filled the garden.<br>     She stood there,<br>Saying, 'What would you, Sir?'<br>    He told his word,<br>'Blessed art thou of women!' Half she heard,<br>Hands folded and face bowed, half long had known,<br>The message of that clear and holy tone,<br>That fluttered hot sweet sobs about her heart;<br>Such serene tidings moved such human smart.<br>Her breath came quick as little flakes of snow.<br>Her hands crept up her breast. She did but know<br>It was not hers. She felt a trembling stir<br>Within her body, a will too strong for her<br>That held and filled and mastered all. With eyes<br>Closed, and a thousand soft short broken sighs,<br>She gave submission; fearful, meek, and glad. . . .</div><div style="margin:10px 0">She wished to speak. Under her breasts she had<br>Such multitudinous burnings, to and fro,<br>And throbs not understood; she did not know<br>If they were hurt or joy for her; but only<br>That she was grown strange to herself, half lonely,<br>All wonderful, filled full of pains to come<br>And thoughts she dare not think, swift thoughts and dumb,<br>Human, and quaint, her own, yet very far,<br>Divine, dear, terrible, familiar . . .<br>Her heart was faint for telling; to relate<br>Her limbs' sweet treachery, her strange high estate,<br>Over and over, whispering, half revealing,<br>Weeping; and so find kindness to her healing.<br>'Twixt tears and laughter, panic hurrying her,<br>She raised her eyes to that fair messenger.<br>He knelt unmoved, immortal; with his eyes<br>Gazing beyond her, calm to the calm skies;<br>Radiant, untroubled in his wisdom, kind.<br>His sheaf of lilies stirred not in the wind.<br>How should she, pitiful with mortality,<br>Try the wide peace of that felicity<br>With ripples of her perplexed shaken heart,<br>And hints of human ecstasy, human smart,<br>And whispers of the lonely weight she bore,<br>And how her womb within was hers no more<br>And at length hers?<br>   Being tired, she bowed her head;<br>And said, "So be it!"<br>   The great wings were spread<br>Showering glory on the fields, and fire.<br>The whole air, singing, bore him up, and higher,<br>Unswerving, unreluctant. Soon he shone<br>A gold speck in the gold skies; then was gone.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The air was colder, and grey. She stood alone.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Rupert+Brooke">Rupert Brooke</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=115906" data-title="Mary and Gabriel de Rupert Brooke" data-description="Young Mary, loitering once her garden way,/Felt a warm splendour grow in the April day,/As wine that blushes water through. And soon,/Out of the gold air of the afternoon,/One knelt before her: hair he had, or fire,/Bound back above his ears with ..."></div>
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