| |
| AT dusk the window panes grew grey; | |
| The wet world vanished in the gloom; | |
| The dim and silver end of day | |
| Scarce glimmered through the little room. | |
| |
| And all my sins were told; I said | 5 |
| Such things to her who knew not sin— | |
| The sharp ache throbbing in my head, | |
| The fever running high within. | |
| |
| I touched with pain her purity; | |
| Sin’s darker sense I could not bring: | 10 |
| My soul was black as night to me; | |
| To her I was a wounded thing. | |
| |
| I needed love no words could say; | |
| She drew me softly nigh her chair, | |
| My head upon her knees to lay, | 15 |
| With cool hands that caressed my hair. | |
| |
| She sat with hands as if to bless, | |
| And looked with grave, ethereal eyes; | |
| Ensouled by ancient Quietness, | |
| A gentle priestess of the Wise. | 20 |
| |
