| A
silent longing drew me towards
the church-
Not in the hour when votaries
throng its aisles,
When tinkling massbells
teach us kneeling-time,
And prayers that boast despair
are breathed with smiles.
Not
while the gilded steps of
Fashion fall
And her full train sweeps
by in crimson state,
But when the peasant-mother,
with her child,
Presses her sun-stained
brow against the grate.
Or
oftener yet, no worshipper
was there.
Thus, ere the chant of evening
should begin,
I left the vesper of the
world without,
And with me went the gentle
twilight in.
In
lustral water I imbued my
hands,
By some unholy contact chance-defiled;
Washed from my brow the
trace of evil thought;
From lips, what they amiss
had said or smiled.
I
knelt to pray, then, flinging
far away
Life's garden weeds, that
throng our footsteps free,
Choking the seed by angels
strewn, to bear
The flower of Hope for Joy
that is to be.
This
was my shrift, a breathing
after God,
A shuddering, rapid glance
adown the past,
Turned heavenward ere its
spectral forms could rise,
And, with pale chiding,
set my soul aghast;
A
sacrifice of expiation sought
For every willful error
of my life,
A plea like this: "Bethink
thee, by thy will
Th' immortal breath took
this poor flesh to wife.
'Were
they for suffering and for
evil wed,
High priest of Nature, bear
with me the blame!
But if for purposes of love
and good,
Help! raise me from this
bed of sloth and shame!'
|
Julia's
Poetry:
Passion-Flowers