Scarce lay the blossoms of her golden hair
Warm as a leveret in her mother’s hand
When on the wall her shadow gliding there
Haunted her young years with its stern demand.
She coveted no worldly vanity
As the tall steps she climbed with girlish grace,
Approaching unperturbed the galaxy
Of aged priests who kept the holy place.
She looked not back. There on the stone floor lay
The apple that her father gave as token
Of tenderness for all her tenderness.
She entered joyfully that blessed day
The templed walls, herself a shrine unbroken,
To wait till time shall reach its fruitfulness.
Ruth Schaumann, 1899-1975
Fr Lee Kenyon
A Treasure to be Shared
The Acolyte’s Toolbox