After Seeing Pius IX By Abram Joseph Ryan

    I saw his face to-day; he looks a chief
     Who fears not human rage, nor human guile;
    Upon his cheeks the twilight of a grief,
     But in that grief the starlight of a smile.
    Deep, gentle eyes, with drooping lids that tell
    They are the homes where tears of sorrow dwell;
    A low voice — strangely sweet — whose very tone
    Tells how these lips speak oft with God alone.
    I kissed his hand, I fain would kiss his feet;
    “No, no,” he said; and then, in accents sweet,
    His blessing fell upon my bended head.
    He bade me rise; a few more words he said,
    Then took me by the hand — the while he smiled —
    And, going, whispered: “Pray for me, my child.”