No painter ever caught the magic other going –
This was a matter of an inward growing,
Simple and imperceptible as thought.
It was no pageant wrought
Of sounding splendor, welter of gold bars
Of molten day, mad stars,
Flurry of quick angels’ winging,
Bursts of their laughter ringing
In wild bliss.
The simple fact is this:
Love conquered at long last.
Her eager soul fled fast
With a great gladness like a song
Unto her Spouse above,
And her pure flesh would not be parted long
For sheer love.
--Joachim Smet, O.Carm.,