It was little for her to die,
For her to whom breath was prayer,
For her who had long put by
Earth-desire;
Who had knelt in the Holy Place
And had drunk the incense-air,
Till her soul to seek God's face
Leapt like fire.

It was only to slip her free
Of the vestal raiment worn
O'er the lengthening lily lea
Toward the west,
For a robe more lustrous white
By the sunset spirits borne
From mansions jewel-bright
Of her rest.

It was only to shift her clime,
Clinging still to the harp of gold,
Fairy-gift of her cradle-time,
Angel-gift,
Of a strain so thrilling rare
We shall hunger on earthly wold
And listen if down the air
Echoes drift.

It was little for her to pass
From this storm-sea, well sufficed
With celestial sea of glass,
Sea of sky;
To change the dream and the spur
For the truth, the goal, the Christ.
Oh, but it was for her