Within.

A poem by Susan Coolidge

Could my heart hold another one?
I cannot tell.
Sometimes it seems an ample dome,
Sometimes a cell,

Sometimes a temple filled with saints,
Serene and fair,
Whose eyes are pure from mortal taints
All lilies are.

Sometimes a narrow shrine, in which
One precious fare
Smiles ever from its guarded niche,
With deathless grace.

Sometimes a nest, where weary things,
And weal; and shy,
Are brooded under mother wings
Till they can fly.

And then a palace, with wide rooms
Adorned and dressed,
Where eager slaves pour sweet perfumes
For each new guest.

Whiche'er it be, I know always
Within that door--
Whose latch it is not mine to raise--
Blows evermore,

With breath of balm upon its wing,
A soft, still air,
Which makes each closely folded thing
Look always fair.

My darlings, do you feel me near,
As every day
Into this hidden place and dear
I take my way?

Always you stand in radiant guise,
Always I see
A noiseless welcome in the eyes
You turn on me.

And, whether I come soon or late,
Whate'er befall,
Always within the guarded gate
I find you all.

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