Classic Poem

M ADRID , 1888

Beneath the grass, I hear them say,
Live loathsome things that hate the day, —
Strange crawling shapes with blinded eyes,
Whose very image terrifies.
I dread not these: make deep my bed
With good black mold round heart and head.
But oh! the fear a Thought may creep
Down from the world to where I sleep,
Pierce through the earth to heart and brain
And coil there, in its home again!
Father, thou hast the good God's ear, —
And when priests speak He bends to hear, —
Say, " Lord, this woman of Madrid
Begs, when herself in earth is hid,
Her soul's guilt paid for, grain by grain,
In throes of purgatorial pain,
That Thou her soul wouldst clean destroy;
She hath no wish for heavenly joy,
But just to be dissolved to Naught,
Beyond the reach of any thought.
Some sinners dare to beg for bliss,
I know my place, and ask but this:
That He, who made will then unmake
My soul, for His sweet mercy's sake! "