The air is heavy with a mist of spice,

Vervain and agrimony, clove and rue,

Have I not paid, have I not paid the price?

How shall these tempters torture me anew?

I close my eyes and dream the incense drifts

Over the monstrance, and the acolyte

Swings the gold censer. Then the vision lifts:

I know the poisonous joys I have to fight.

Day with its flowers and yellow butterflies,

Holds for my heart no pain, the wind is free

That blows upon my garden from far skies,

Yet may I hold it in white chastity.

But night!—and the still air!—Ah, God above,

Have I the strength to wage thy war anew?

Blot out my senses or I die for love,—

Vervain and agrimony, clove and rue!