They who this age of Pain have trod,
Of him they strove with made their god;
But I who wrestle with him now
Contend but to uncrown his brow.

His brazen cup with wormwood stored,
I have drained deep, but ever poured
To Joy his sacred portion first:
'T was draught to him did quench my thirst.

Thy crown of thorns though I must share,
Jesu, it blossoms in my hair!
And they who look upon my face
See wreathéd roses in its place.

O great Allayer of our pain,
That some day shuts all eyelids down,
Wilt thou come softly, like the rain,
When he goes through to cleanse the town?

Wilt thou come singing with the wind,
Who shouts and sweeps the dust away,
And scatters thus triumphantly
The little hoarded heaps of clay?

Or smiling silent, as the sun
Who ripens ere they fall to rest,
Earth's flowers and fruits, so one by one,
They mellow drop upon her breast?

O great Allayer of our pain,
O sure Encompasser of all
Our woe: O come gently, as rain

That day whereon I die they 'll say,
“How bright doth shine the sun!
A little cloud hath flown away,
Its race with darkness done.

“A little cloud hath fallen in tears,
That covered up the morn:
See now the earth sky-beauty wears
And starry flowers are born.

“See now the earth fresh-clad, arrayed
In robes that bear the rose;
A little stormy cloud that strayed
Now homeward, homeward goes.”

Yea, of my journey o'er the skies,
My flight unto the flowers,
I pray more beauty shall arise,
I pray more light be yours.

Little Sister Rose-Marie,
Chosen bride to Christ she 'll be.
Child—she says she sees her path,
Mild—has felt God-Father's wrath.
Vows her life forth joyfully.
(Visioned unreality).

Harken, Sister Rose-Marie:
Chosen bride to pain I be;
But I never saw his face,
And I never chose my place,
Nor the vow that wedded me.
(O unseen reality.)

My life was too short for sinning,
For sinning or for a shame;
Nor wickedness had no beginning—
Or are they all but a name?

Not even one little folly
Of my own in my brief day;
Only the monstrous folly
Of the world, which is not gay.

No sins there be, says the Father,
For which one is not forgiven.
Then come, sinners, comfort gather:
One's saintly when one has been shriven!

Then had there been time to squander
One little sin or two,
Just for wantonness and grandeur,
Which would I have chosen to do?

O the burden, the burden of love ungiven,
The weight of laughter unshed,
O heavy caresses, unblown tendernesses,
O love-words unsung and unsaid.

O the burden, the burden of love unspoken,
The cramp of silence close-furled,
To lips that would utter, to hands that would scatter
Love's seed on the paths of the world.

O the heavy burden of love ungiven:
My breast doth this burden bear;
Deep in my bosom the unblown blossom—
My world-love that withers there.

This morn I cried: “Now I will live,
For Spring comes striding through the land,
With branch and blossom in her hand,
And all dear gifts that she doth give.”

This morn I cried: “Now I will live!”
Alas, the frail bright blossoms fall,
And though the Spring have gifts for all,
My gift of life she doth not give.

Let it no longer be a forlorn hope
To wash an Ethiope;
He's washed, his gloomy skin a peaceful shade
For his white soul is made,
And now, I doubt not, the Eternal Dove
A black-faced house will love.

Maiden moder milde,
Oiez cel oreysoun;
From shome thou me shilde
E de ly mal feloun;
For love of thine childe
Me menez de tresoun.
Ich wes wod and wilde,
Ore su en prisoun.

Thou art feir and free
E plein de doucour;
Of thee sprong the ble,
Ly soverein creatour;
Maide, biseche I thee
Vostre seint socour;
Meke and milde be with me
Pur la sue amour.

Tho Judas Jesum founde,
Donque ly beysa,
He wes bete and bounde
Que nus tous fourma.
Wide were his wounde
Que le Giw ly dona;
He tholede harde stounde,

The Sister wears a long straight gown
That hangs in folds of heavy brown;
Is it to teach there is no garb
Gives entrance to the Heavenly town?

For't is her swift feet take her there,
'T is her kind hands that build it fair,
Nor need she wait to tread its streets,
For it is neither here nor there.

I go up in my cloak of pain
And try the bright door not in vain;
I slip into the silent squares,
And I may go again, again.

'Tis for the living—we who try
To learn life deeply ere we die.
Even pain who draws me near to death