University of Virginia Library

Abroken lamp half choked by mouldy gloom,
A broken woman in a broken room,
Where all was cold without and cold within;
A broken woman who had once been fair,
With tattered bents of broken golden hair
Dangling about a visage ashy pale,—
The paler from the shadow of the veil,
Which, drooping low in many a rusty fold,
Made the lithe shape and supple stature old.
Her quivering hand scarce propped a quivering chin,
And on two rings that peered beyond the shade
The light shone faintly; and the night wind strayed
Faintly about the broken window bars,
Where low mist hung that curtained out the stars.

Anon a call upon the cloudy air,
And then a footstep on the narrow stair;
A step, a voice, and she sat dreaming there.
The step was nearer, and the voice more loud;
She shivered blindly, but her head was bowed
Beneath a tangled burden of despair,
And still the door was shut and he was come.
She felt his hand put back her tangled hair;
She felt his eager lips, and still was dumb,—
Dumb with dismay that chilled her glad surprise.
At last she gasped and lifted up her head,
And looked at him with wide and open eyes.

Then with a fluttering, tremulous voice, she said,
“Master, belovèd, are you quick or dead?”
“I do not think to have to die again.”
“Oh, master, then I have to die alone;
But you will pray for me at God's high throne.”
“Love, you are nearer to God's throne than I,
But I will pray for you, and pray for me.”
“And, master, are you judged and are you sped?
Well, for heaven's light is beaming in your eye.”
“My darling, do not be afraid to die.
God is so gentle, so unlike his saints;
For when they lay their hands upon our taints,
They probe, they brand; His kisses burn away.”
“I knew God could not be on Bernard's side;
But when Citeaux shall be a satyr's den,
And harmless thorns shall choke Clairvaulx again,
And no hard rule lie heavy upon men,
God in your glory will be glorified.”
“Sweet, are you sure God will not be denied?
And I, if there be mention of me then,
Be loudly praised and timorously cursed
As the bold man ‘who dared deny the first,
Though why he did not clearly understand,
He made the quibble serve that came to hand?’
“I have not been to heaven, I do not fear.”
“Sweet, I should pity, but I shall not hear;
But talk of happier things, and not of me.”
“Then tell me, master, if the company
Of righteous ransomed by the Only Son,
Or of the angels erst by pride undone,
Be more?”—“I counted not; the saints are one.”
“Have angels wings to fly from place to place,
Or do they journey by a ghostly grace?”
“They do not journey, but are very still,
Their only place and country is God's will;
And as He wills they serve Him here and there,
Yet rest in Him, for He is everywhere.”
“And tell me, up in heaven do they say
The Paternoster yours or Bernard's way?”
“They do not pray in Latin or in Greek.”
“In Hebrew, then?”—“They love and do not speak;
They have no lips, but with their love they pray.”
“You speak?”—“For I am fleshlier than they.”
“Ah, you are dead, and still I drag you down,
And you have given me immortality
Here upon earth; and you instructed me
To climb with you the narrow way to heaven.
And I have laboured so to be forgiven,
If ever I might be pure, and be your crown.”
“O sister, wedded to a worthier Spouse;
O flower, bruised by the thorns that gird His brows;
O flower, too fair to make a crown for me,
And yet I have no other crown but you;
For oh, my sister, till the judgment day,
As I must count the years that roll away,
And bring no work and teach me nothing new,
I think to have no pleasure but our love,
Which was the first sin I repented of;
And I shall have no other pain but this,
To think how heartless was the parting kiss
I put upon your aching forehead then,
Which I must never, never kiss again.
For, O my spirit's sister, had you seen
What love, our love though sinful might have been,
What your love was and is, mine cannot be,
Then you would be content; and you shall see.”

She heard and yet she would not be content,
But cried to God and said, “My punishment
And also his is more than I can bear;
For we have sought and striven with pain to pay
Thy mercy, which I find not anywhere;
And yet Thou wilt not put our sin away.
Weary at heart am I of Thee, O Lord,
Because Thou wilt not put our sin away;
But we have laboured, and have no reward.
Thou, even Thou, hast shut us up in night,
And for my sin his spirit hath been bowed,
And all the courage, which was full of light,
Is covered up with a desponding cloud
Of helpless, self-accusing lowliness.”

The spirit almost smiled at her distress.
She heeded not, “For now,” she said, “his name,
Which should have been my glory, is my shame;
For certainly it is decreed above
That he should be forgotten for my love.”
“Not so,” he said, “O sorely tried, not so,
But all the masters famous heretofore
Until I came, and all our noisy lore
Should all have been forgotten but for me;
And I forgotten also but for thee,
Whom by my sin I brought exceeding low.
Wherefore thy love shall be a parable
Among the generations evermore,
When they shall ask what made you love so well,
Or what you found in me to make you proud.”
“So I have loved you, and you were a dream,
And you loved knowledge, and it was a lie;
Now were it better to lie down and die,
Or strive to think that things are as they seem
Once more?”

“If envy could have place on high,
Angels would envy you your penitence,
As you are jealous of their innocence.
I almost think that they would envy me.
They cannot taste the joy without a name,
Our joy, to wear throughout eternity
The comfortable garment of our shame,
Drawn round us very softly out of sight,
And covered up with charitable light.
The happiness of having been forgiven
Is worth ten thousand thousand years of heaven.
The brightest seraph might forswear his crown
To lie, and tremble, and to be cast down,
And fall, and fall, and fall, and find God there,
And find Him still to beautiful to bear.”
“I count the seraph happier who can soar
Through heavens and heavens, and see God always higher.”
“You will not: you will see the Bridegroom's face
Shining more sweetly from the lower place,
And each is judged after his own desire;
For even the lake of everlasting fire
Seems sweeter to the lost than to adore.
But you, if you could stretch your wasted hand
Into the night, and pluck the evening star
From heaven”—

“Then doubtless I should understand
The glory wherewith God doth glorify
His saints, whom He hath set with Him on high,
And strewn the stars like dust beneath their feet.
Why this bare penance-room should overflow
With throbbing splendour, yet I hardly know,
It is such a pleasant pain to be below,
Quite out of reach, and yearn and sigh ‘too far.’”
“So also I rejoice in what I miss,
Only my yearning hath not any pain;
I count my losses, and they turn to gain.
The voice which says ‘too late’ is very sweet,
And God is glorified in even this.”
“But this is hard for flesh and blood to bear.”
“Think, sister, that the light of every star
Is in you, whether it be near or far;
Then you shall understand and be content,
And all things shall be with you where you are,
Because it is not any banishment
To be with Jesus, who is everywhere.”
“Yea, master, I am well content.”

“Farewell.”
“Tarry a little for the matin bell,
And pray with her whom you have taught to pray
This last, once more, on earth.”

“I may not stay;
I may not come upon the holy place.”
She turned to front him with a quivering face:
“The night is keen, and whither will you go?”
“My sister, to the only house I know,
The house we both know well, a house of clay,
A house of worms, a house of clammy sod,
Where I will keep my vigil as I may;
You know I cannot go away from God.”
“Yea, even there it shall be well with you,
Beloved master, only take me too.”
“Sister, not yet, you need not ever come.
What would you with me in the empty gloom?”
Again she answered with a little moan,
“Oh, master, take me in if there is room,
And I will tell you news of Christendom.”
“Sister, it is too much to leave your throne,
To show God's glory with your eyes to me,
For I shall still be blind, but you will see,
To sit down with me in the dark alone,—
Alone with me. I am not company
For you or any saint, only for God.”