The Writing on the Rock
Let it be; say no more.
She had desire to be loved
Too jealously, and pressed upon God her face
Wet, wet, importunate, through the long hair.
What she learned there
Of blind gold images, with eyes unmoved,
Of the taste of dust upon the temple floor
And the tiny twang of the arrow ending the chase
Is not for us to care.
These things are writ on the brow
Taken back from Time. But now,
However still God be,
As quiet is she.