  My good Lord Abbot:—But this once I speak, and then no more. I must not 'gainst the lore Of the great Schools Set my weak cries For warmth and life and love. The snow now lies Deep round the Paraclete, Where from my pale nuns rise In never ceasing chant of nones and primes Incense of prayers to ease the need of God For broken contrite hearts and dropping tears. And sometimes I have fears That each one wears 'Neath her long habit As sad a heart as mine, For in their eyes, Which each unto the skies I see desire for love, A gift they pray From God, since man gives not That which they need. I watch them from my carven chair, While lingering on a bead, And add, beneath my hood, Beads to my rosary of tears To think how good To each 'twould seem to change This Latin drone and censer's clank For the dear homely noise Around the hearth Of little girls and boys— For all these weary prayers The daily household cares For some tired labourer Who earned their bread. Oh, little hands and feet!— There is no room Within this cloistered tomb Wherein we worship God, For one dear curly head. Sometimes at prayers A vision seems to rise— Borne on an air Mayhap that blows from Hell. And then I see the great Lord Jove And all His mighty peers Who ruled so many years Above the ancient heavens, Dwindle, and fade, and pass away, And only Love remains— I see the doctors of the ancient schools, Great Egypt's sages, those who made the rules Fade also like a dream; All their wise thoughts grow foolishness And all their learning turns to dust, And only Love remains Forever young, forever wise and great, And in the time to come I see the same strong fate Seize on our Mighty God Who binds us in his chains, And makes our love a sin To drive our souls to Hell, He too, with all his doctors Fades—and only Love remains Forever and forever. Fare you well. |
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