All alone in my little cell with no one for company, I love this place of pilgrimage now while I still have life. A hut remote and hidden for repenting of all sin, with upright conscience, unafraid in the face of holy Heaven. With a body that good habits made holy, treading it down, and eyes worn out and tearful with penance for my desires, with weak, subdued desires and denial of the wretched world, with innocent, eager thoughts, so let us sue to God. With sincere lamentations up to cloudy Heaven, earnest devout confession, intense tears in torrents; on a cold, nervous bed -- as a doomed man might lie down -- with short, anxious sleep and prayer early and often. As to property and food our one wish -- to abstain. For certain what I eat will be no cause of sin: dry bread measured out with virtuous head bowed low, and water from the bright hill our proper draught to drink. A salt and meagre diet with mind bent on a book; no disputation, visitation; conscience serene and calm. How wonderful it would be -- some pure and holy blemish, cheeks dried and sunken in, skin leathery and lean! Christ, God's Son, to visit me, my Maker and my King, my spirit turning toward Him and the Kingdom where He dwells. And let the place that shelters me behind monastic walls be a lovely cell, with pillars pure, and I there all alone. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE SONG OF HIAWATHA: HIAWATHA'S FASTING by HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW THE PALM-TREE by JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER THE EMPTY BOTTLE by WILLIAM EDMONSTOUNE AYTOUN IN THAT DAY by ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON HINC LACHRIMAE; OR THE AUTHOR TO AURORA: 44 by WILLIAM BOSWORTH TOWARDS DEMOCRACY: PART 2. HIGH IN MY CHAMBER by EDWARD CARPENTER |