The Secret Splendour

(From the French of Henri Malteste)

To Christ gave Magdalen her exquisite soul.

Was it to God surrendered? Who can guess

The secret balsam soothing her distress,

The mystic urge that made his feet her goal?—

Unearthly feet touched by impassioned breath

And soft hair odorous with spikenard,

Losing their triumph—seeking, mournful, marred,

Through angry mobs the blind cold spikes of death!

O poet Jesus, love was your sole law;

Yet such strange love that Magdalen's matchless grace

Burned not so keen in your celestial thought

As the intractable heart of man you saw

Her wondrous worshipping mouth, yet gave your face

To the hollow kiss of the Iscariot!

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