WHEN for love it was fain of
The wild heart was chidden,
When the white limbs were clothed
And the beauty was hidden;

For the scorn that was done to
The least of her graces,
The Mother veiled over
And hid from our faces

The high soul of nature,
The deep and the wonder,
Her towers up in heaven,
And the fairyland under.

The Mother then whispered,
“The wrong done by thee
To the least limb of beauty
Was done unto me.”