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"L. M."

Not quite a faultless-seeming face;

Yet something of a nameless grace,

And raidance from a higher place,

About the comfort-giving eyes,

And brown hair worn Madonna-wise

Across the tender forehead, lies, -

And round dear lips that are so calm

With loving words of loving balm,

Floats like the spirit of a psalm

Sung when the swinging censers go

Before the altar to and fro,

And all the people's heads are low

Awing the stormful turbulence

Of my rough manhood with the sense

Of meekness, and the affluence