 | Carmina crucis |  |
51
A MYSTERY.
“Ego autem dico in Christo et in Ecclesia.”
A bird sings clear within the darkling wood;
Sing sweet, oh bird, though wounded be thy breast;
Although thy song of few be understood,
A song of love is thine—a song of rest.
Sing sweet, oh bird, though wounded be thy breast;
Although thy song of few be understood,
A song of love is thine—a song of rest.
A rose beneath it blooms—a rose unfed
By earthly mould, unnourish'd by the dew,
Yet rich the rose's fragrance, ruby red
In every leaf, as if its heart burn'd through.
By earthly mould, unnourish'd by the dew,
Yet rich the rose's fragrance, ruby red
In every leaf, as if its heart burn'd through.
And when the bird is silent, then the rose
Gives forth no odour, yields no light nor bloom—
Death-stricken pale, its petals shrink and close,
And all the air grows silent as a tomb.
Gives forth no odour, yields no light nor bloom—
Death-stricken pale, its petals shrink and close,
And all the air grows silent as a tomb.
52
And when the bird sings clearest most it grieves
O'er its deep wound; then from its heart o'erflows
A crimson drop, that on the rose's leaves
Falls with the song, then sweetest is the rose.
O'er its deep wound; then from its heart o'erflows
A crimson drop, that on the rose's leaves
Falls with the song, then sweetest is the rose.
| Carmina crucis | |