Classic Poem

I

Brother G IAN

D EAR Jesus Christ, I 'm Brother Gain.
Within my cell I sit and scratch
From pagan parchments words writ on
Such vellum as not kings can match:
Words, Greek and Latin — all profane.
Three Homers I have quite erased,
And look to see their lines replaced
By lives of Saints without a stain.

This Virgil now: I 'll do it next.
Last night it tempted me to peep
A moment at its wicked text,
Telling of nymphs ... I could not sleep.
Dear Jesus Christ, I dreamt I was
A faun within a Bacchic rout,
And one white creature chose me out:
I broke with kisses all Thy laws.

Here is the place ... I danced as wild
As any bacchant of them all,
With ivy-woven tresses whiled
Mad hours that maddened at her call.
She led me far into the wood
Where not a Pan or Satyr leapt.
Dear Jesus Christ, 'twas Satan swept
Me on — I scarcely understood.

Here is the place. ... For in my dream
Each letter trembled and became
A nymph: the parchment was a stream
Of shapes that glimmered without shame.
I danced and followed where she fled
With lips wine-glad bent back to shout.
Dear Jesus Christ, beyond a doubt
She rose where " Venus" here I read.

So first of all I raze its shame!
And pray that in its place may stand
Some letter of the Virgin's name
Writ by a pure and holy hand,
And set about with red and gold
And lilies — where my eyes still see
But glimmering limbs that tempt and flee,
But shimmering arms that would enfold.

Dear Jesus Christ, this I confess,
And fasting will I toil until
The vellum, white as holiness,
Shall be fit for an angel's quill!
An angel like the nymph with eyes
And body that ... Dear Jesus Christ,
To woman was man sacrificed!
From Eve his sins for ever rise!

II

S ISTER P AULA

I WILL not shun to touch the poor,
Though loathsome be their bruises,
Nor fail to toil, O Virgin Pure,
On garments for their uses.
The sacramental bell I 'll tend
Unceasing, soon or late;
But oh, upon thy image there,
That clasps the Babe unto it, fair,
I pray, bid me not wait!

The holy water I will fetch
From Rome, afaint and fasting;
On the cold chapel-stones I 'll stretch
Long nights without repasting.
Sackcloth I 'll bind about my waist,
Nor ever will I rest,
But, Virgin Mother, let it be
That I need not look up and see
That Child there on thy breast!

For seeing it I can but sin,
I, not to be a mother,
And think of love that might have been,
And of one, now Christ's brother,
Who tosses in his convent cell
On billows of desire,
While tolling hours strike on his dreams
Stern blows of penitence that seems
To shatter them with fire!

I can but sin — and cast away
All love that is not human,
That has not mystic joy to sway
True-mated man and woman!
That does not spring and fill the world
With children and with song;
With passion in the summer night,
Upon young lips bliss hallows quite,
Heart-bliss that is so strong!

I can but sin — the while this veil
I wear seems but to strangle;
The while all vows I follow fail,
Vows made but to entangle!
The while laud, vesper, and compline
Sound to my childlessness
Like chants the hapless heathen pour
On altars of false gods — no more!
Such is my wickedness!

Therefore, O Virgin, set my hands
To tasks however lowly,
To penance only cloister-bands
Of Magdalens pay slowly
Let me be less within thy sight
Than Heaven's lowest heir,
But place me not where I must brood
On the lost bliss of motherhood —
Before thy image there!