Poems (Waldenburg)/Saint Agnes' Eve

ST. AGNES' EVE.

Twelve of the clock and the bitter wind
Sobs wildly, wierdly over the moor,
And the snow falls down as a robe to bind
The cold brown breast of earth now poor;
To cover its heart and to make it light,
To keep it pure as the One who died
Many cycles ago this night!

I sob in my garret, the wind replies,
The gentle snow to my face it clings,
But the world is dumb unto my cries.
And back to my ears my sighs it flings,
And fiends of anger and bitter sin
Open the door and enter in
My soul in its woe to win.

O that I were pure as Saint Agnes of old
And my love above the earth;
That Jesu spouse in the bright untold
So holy, so full of worth!
A king to worship, and not a clod
A trust afar in the Eden of God
Where the steps of the sad ne'er trod!

The pure white light of the dawn cannot pour
Through my soul so dark with sin;
For Pride will arise and bar the door
And let not the sweet light in
For my heart is bitter and hard and cold,
Regret and Remorse, like sentinels bold,
Its curtains together hold.

Far better to die as Saint Agnes suffered of old,
So pure that the flames could not harm,
Than to sit as I do this eve in the cold
With a young life's broken charm.
Dear Saint from thy heaven look down on me,
Lift me above this misery;
That I conquer and pardoned be!