“We weep before the Blessed Mother's shrine,
To think upon her sorrows, but her joys
What nun could ever know a tithing of?
The precious hours she watched above His sleep
Were worth the fearful anguish of the end.
Yea, lack of love is bitterest of all.”

“Oh, when a mother meets on high
The babe she lost in infancy,
Hath she not then for pains and fears,
The day of woe, the watchful night,
For all her sorrow, all her tears,
An over-payment of delight?”

“She was sensible and clever, but eager in everything; her sorrows, her joys, could have no moderation.”

“His shroud was damp, his face was white:
He said,—"I cannot sleep,
Your tears have made my shroud so wet;
Oh, mother, do not weep!"
Oh, love is strong!—the mother's heart
Was filled with tender fears;
Oh, love is strong!—and for her child
Her grief restrained its tears.”

“I have laid sorrow to sleep;
Love sleeps.
She who oft made me weep
Now weeps.”

“Beautiful. He'd called her beautiful. Nobody had ever called her that before, except her mother, which didn't count. Mothers were required to think you were beautiful.”

“I want to
let her know
though
that all the nights
sleeping
beside her

even the useless
arguments
were things
ever splendid

and the hard
words
I ever feared to
say
can now be
said:

I love
you.”

“Her joy with him was like nothing she had ever experienced. His love for her felt like a miracle.”

“She wept with shame for her lack of will and with fear for a love she couldn't control.”

“What need hath she
Of shrine to her divinity?
Each fair face is her visible shrine;
She hath been, she will be divine.”