 | Later Lyrics |  |
113
A DREAM.
A woman came, wearing a veil;
Her features were burning and pale;
At the door of the shrine doth she kneel,
And waileth out, bowing her head,
“Ye men of remembrance and dread,
Exorcise the pangs that I feel.
Her features were burning and pale;
At the door of the shrine doth she kneel,
And waileth out, bowing her head,
“Ye men of remembrance and dread,
Exorcise the pangs that I feel.
A boat that is torn with the tide,
A mountain with flame in its side
That rends its devouring way,
A feather the whirlwind lifts high,
Are not wilder or weaker than I,
Since Love makes my bosom his prey.
A mountain with flame in its side
That rends its devouring way,
A feather the whirlwind lifts high,
Are not wilder or weaker than I,
Since Love makes my bosom his prey.
114
Ye Saints, I fall down at your feet;
Thou Virgin, so piteous to greet,
Reach hither the calm of your hands;
Ye statues of power and of art,
Let your marble weight lie on my heart,
Hold my madness with merciful bands.”
Thou Virgin, so piteous to greet,
Reach hither the calm of your hands;
Ye statues of power and of art,
Let your marble weight lie on my heart,
Hold my madness with merciful bands.”
The priest takes his candle and book
With the pity of scorn in his look,
And chants the dull Mass through his teeth;
But the penitent, clasping his knees,
Cries, “Vain as the sough of the breeze
Are thy words to the anguish of death.”
With the pity of scorn in his look,
And chants the dull Mass through his teeth;
But the penitent, clasping his knees,
Cries, “Vain as the sough of the breeze
Are thy words to the anguish of death.”
The priest, with reproval and frown,
Bids the listless attendant reach down
The water that sprinkles from sin.
“Your water is water,” she cries:
“The further its foolishness flies,
The fiercer the flames burn within.”
Bids the listless attendant reach down
The water that sprinkles from sin.
“Your water is water,” she cries:
“The further its foolishness flies,
The fiercer the flames burn within.”
115
“Get thee hence to the cell and the scourge!”
The priest in his anger doth urge,
“Or the fire of the stake thou shalt prove,
Maintaining with blasphemous tongue
That the mass-book and censer, high swung,
Cannot cast out the demon of Love.”
The priest in his anger doth urge,
“Or the fire of the stake thou shalt prove,
Maintaining with blasphemous tongue
That the mass-book and censer, high swung,
Cannot cast out the demon of Love.”
Then the Highest stept down from his place,
While the depths of his wonderful face
The thrill of compassion did move:
“Come, hide thee,” he cried, “in this breast;
I summon the weary to rest;
With love I exorcise thy love.”
While the depths of his wonderful face
The thrill of compassion did move:
“Come, hide thee,” he cried, “in this breast;
I summon the weary to rest;
With love I exorcise thy love.”
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