Classic and Contemporary Poetry
SISTER ANNUNCIATA: 1. AN ANNIVERSARY, by AUGUSTA DAVIES WEBSTER Poet's Biography First Line: My wedding day! A simple happy wife Last Line: But yet I would I had not seen that face. Alternate Author Name(s): Home, Cecil; Webster, Mrs. Julia Augusta Subject(s): Nuns | ||||||||
MY wedding day! A simple happy wife, Stolen from her husband's sight a little while To think how much she loved him, might so kneel Alone with God and love a little while, (For if the Church bless love, is love a sin?) And, coming back into the happy stir Of children keeping the home festival, Might bring the Heaven's quiet in her heart; Yes, even coming to him, coaxing him With the free hand that wears his fetter on it, Sunning her boldly in his look of love, And facing him with unabashed fond eyes Might, being all her husband's, still be God's And know it--happy with no less a faith Than we who, ever serving at His shrine, Know ourselves His alone. Am I sinning now To think it? Nay, no doubt I went too far: The bride of Christ is more than other women; I must not dare to even such to me. They have their happiness, I mine; but mine Is it not of Heaven heavenly, theirs of earth, And therefore tainted with earth's curse of sin? Did Mary envy Martha? Oh my Lord Forgive thy handmaid if her spirit lone, A little lone because the clog of flesh That sunders it from Thee still burdens it With the poor human want of human love, Hungry a moment and by weakness snared, Has dared, with the holy manna feast in reach, To think on Egypt's fleshpots and not loathe. Oh! Virgin Mother, pray thou for thy child, That I who have escaped the dangerous world, Rising above it on thy altar steps, May feel the heavens round me lifting me, Lifting me higher, higher, day by day, Until the glory blinds me, and my ears Hear only Heaven's voices, and my thoughts Have passed into one blending with His will, And earth's dulled memories seem nothingness! Ah me! poor soul, even here 'tis a hard fight With the wiles of Satan! Was the Abbess wise To set me, in the night too when one most Is tempted to let loose forbidden dreams And float with them back to the far-off life Of foolish old delights,--yes, was she wise To set me in the night-hush such a watch, Wherein "to think upon my ancient life With all its sins and follies, and prepare To keep my festival for that good day That wedded me out of the world to Christ?" She has forgotten doubtless, "tis so long Since she came here, how, trying to recall Girl sins and follies, some things of the past Might be recalled too tenderly, and so The poisonous sad sweet sin of looking back Steal on one unawares. Oh hush! alas How easy 'tis to sin! Now I have tripped; Obedience must not question. But one learns With every hour of growing holiness How bitter Satan is against the Saints. I muse if I, who of the sisterhood Am surely, now that Agatha is dead, The nearest saintly practice, most in prayer, And most in penance, crucifying most The carnal nature, till they point to me With pride for the convent and some envy too For themselves left lower in the race--if I Am tripped so often, how then fare the rest? Though doubtless Satan does not track so close Until he fears one. But they are less armed: Alas how he may break them! Poor weak souls, How I shall pray for them: for bye and bye, Doubtless, I shall be freer from the self I have yet to guard, my victory will be won And I shall tread on sin, invulnerable, As the Saints do at last. If I, that is, Might reach the goal I strain at, the one goal Ambition may seek sinless--though I faint The goal I will attain. I think in truth My feet are on the road, and, let them bleed Among the thorns, I still press on. Perhaps It is because she sees how strong I grow, She gave me this ordeal, this the first year-day, Out of the several, she has risked it. No. She'd not have tried one of the others thus; She sees I shall not fail. I cannot think, Although she knows me her successor here, She plans to lessen me from a renown Of sanctity that bids to dwindle hers. No--she is kind, there is no seeming in it, And simply good, although no miracle Of self-set discipline, and her meek mind Would find a daughter's merit glorying The convent's name glory enough for her-- She is my friend. Ah! I remember me In the first days--when I was sad and restless And seemed an alien in a hopeless world, All form and pious parrot-talk, a home For stunting dull despair shut from the sun, A nursery to bloat the sick self in To a mis-shapen God to feed whose fires The loves and hopes and faiths, the very life Of the young heart must perish, and I knew For the best future nothing but a blank, For then the present bitterness of death, The horrible death in life--my first belief In any comfort earlier than the grave's Came from a touch of tenderness in her, Only a tone, a look as she passed by Where I was sitting by the broken well, Looking at the green growth that overslimed The never heaven waters, thinking "this, The image of the thing my life becomes, Unlighted, unlightgiving, ignorant Of sunflash and of shadow, with the slime Of utter foul stagnation hiding heaven As surely as its narrow walls fair earth, And under all, chill, chill!" "God bless you daughter," She said; her usual greeting, but it came With the kind of sound one likes to dwell upon-- A little trivial phrase in the right tone Makes music for so long. "God bless you daughter" As if she meant it--and there was the touch Of a mere womanly pity in her eyes. So her blessing loosed the bands about my heart, And the passion of tears broke out. 'Twas the first time Since the night before they brought me to my vows In a passive dream; I think because since then I had been hopeless, and it must have been That the feeling of a human tenderness Still folding me, made something like a hope, Feeding my withering heart like water drops Given the poor plant brought from the fresh free air And natural dewings of the skyward soil, Where its wild growth took bent at the wind's will, To learn indoors an artificial bloom Or die. Before it had been too near death For weeping--And the comfort of those tears! I almost wish that I could weep so now! No, no, I take again my wish, which was a sin; It was no wish, a fancy at the most; Lord, let it not be numbered with my sins! What mere mad sin against the spirit, that, If I could wish to lose my hard-won state Of holy peace. And wherefore should I weep? For what endurance? I who have inhaled The rich beatitude of my spousalship, To the heart's core. But then I only saw The human side, knew but the present loss Of the outer bloom of life, and did not know That, stripped of the flower-wings, the fruit grew on, Yea, and to ripe to immortality, In this sure shelter. Or I knew it, say, As I know that bye and bye, when I am dead, I shall be sunned in the grave on summer days, While, if one now were standing in the frosts, The chariest winter beam were something, all; And what such summers waiting for the time Of silence and of change? A sorry mocking Of hungering hope with bitter dead sea fruit. She preached to me, good woman, when she turned, Catching the breath of my outswelling grief, And, with the softened smile some mothers rest Upon their children, came to me quietly, And sat beside me there. No doubt she ran Her whole small simple round of eloquence; I have heard it all since then, I think; but then I did not hear--a murmur in my ears That hummed on, soothing, like a lullaby. And through it I perceived some scraps of texts, And godly phrases, and examples drawn From the lives of the saints, and wise encouragements; And I wept on. But the warm touch of her hands Nursing my right hand in them motherly, And the feeling of her kindly neighbourhood, These spoke a language that I understood And thrilled to in my desolate mood. Through them That heavy sense of prison loneliness, Whether I moved alone or companied, Was lifted from my heart, broken away In the rushing of my tears; and even from then, Wherefore I know not, I was moved to grope Up from the dark towards the light of Heaven. But ah the long ascent! It was enough At first to learn the patience that subdued My throbbing heart to its new quiet rule, The hope of Heaven that bore down earth's despair-- But these were comfort, and the craving grew As natural for them as the sick man's For the pain-soothing draught he learned perforce To school his palate to. But then the effort To be another self, to know no more The fine-linked dreams of youth, the flying thoughts Like sparkles on the wave-tops changing place And all one scattered brightness, the high schemes And glorious wild endeavours after good, Fond, bubble-soaring, but how beautiful! The sweet unreal reveries, the gush Of voiceless songs deep in the swelling heart, The dear delight of happy girlish hopes-- Of, ah my folly! some hopes too strange sweet That I dare think of them even to rebuke-- Ah not to be forgotten though they lie Too deep for even memory. Alas! Even if I would, how could I now recall To their long-faded forms those phantasies Of a far, other, consciousness which now Beneath the ashes of their former selves Lie a dead part of me, but still a part, Oh evermore a part. I do not think There can be sin in that, in knowing it. I am not nursing the old foolish love Which clogged my spirit in those bitter days. Ah no, dear as it was even in its pain, I have trampled on it, crushed its last life out. I do not dread the beautiful serpent now; It cannot breathe again, not if I tried To warm it at my breast, it is too dead And my heart has grown too cold; the Lord himself, I thank Him, has renewed it virgin-cold To give to Him. I do but recognize A simple truth, that that which has been lived, Lived down to the deeps of the true being, is Even when past for ever, has become Inseparable from the lifelong self: But yet it lives not with the present life. So, in this wise, I may unshamed perceive That the dead life, that the dead love, are still A part of me Nay do I fool myself? Why do I fever so thinking of him? Why do I think of him? What brought his face So vividly before me? Angelo, Art thou in the night-stillness waking now Remembering me, remembering me who came A little moment into thy bright life And seemed to make it brighter, and then passed, Leaving no doubt a little cloud behind, Till when? Till now? Till death comes with the end? Or till the other's smile had lighted it With the rich rose of dawn to brighter day? While she lies dreaming of the dainty dress Ordered for next night's ball, art thou indeed Thinking, alone in heart, of former days, And asking the dull hush to speak of me? Or is it but a careless memory Passing thy dreamy thought a moment long, A wondering lightly "Is she reconciled To the lot they gave her?" But, whate'er it be, Surely some thought of shine came to me now And called mine to thee. Nay, it must not be. Oh once my own beloved, now a mere name, A name of something that one day was dear, In an old world, to one who is no more, Vex me no more with idle communings,-- Love me, love her, what matters it to me? I stand as far apart as angels are From earthly passion--not by my own strength, But by the grace shewn in me, and the bar Of my divine espousal. Stand far off Even in thought. Yes, though this was thy word, That long fond evening when we stole apart Out of the music and the talking, when We stood below the orange-boughs abloom, And the sweet night was silent, and the waves Were rocking softly underneath the moon, Asleep in the white calm, and we, alone, Were whispering all our hearts each into each: "Eva, my Eva, darling of my life, If they should part us still you are my all. I will not love the other. She might bear My name, gild with the purchase money for it Our houses' tarnished splendours, rear the heirs Of its new greatness.--You, you, only you, In your cold prison, would be wife to me, Wife of my soul. Are we not one, love, so? They could not beat down that; and I would live In a secret world with you, so that in Heaven I could claim you boldly, 'this was my own wife' And all the angels know it true." Ah me! How long that wild rapt promise hindered me In my first struggles for the Saints' cold peace, Because he spoke it in a certain tone-- Sometimes he used it--that had a strange power To thrill me with strange pleasure through and through And leave long after echoes still possessed Of something more than most tones, even his, And easier to recall at will; and these Remained with me; I could not quite forego Their dangerous sweetness. So the Tempter came Saying always "He too thinks of them" and I Would be so weak, so wicked, that I thought, "I cannot try to be in perfectness One of the Heavenly Brides, lest I succeed And, standing white-robed with the virgin train Who in the after kingdom follow Christ, See him and know him and am lost to him, Even there where the last hope was." But now, No more my love for ever, now at length In this more perfect day of my raised soul, I can say calmly: "Though this was thy word I do not bid thee honour it." It was The dream of a mad moment, let it pass: I would not hold thee to it if I could: I scale a heavenward height, and if I shiver A little, just a little, in the snows, On the darker days, should I for this descend Into the earth-balmed valley and forego The victories of my toiling steps, the crown Of my long enterprize! No, though thy voice Were thrice and thrice as eager-sweet as when Long since it said "be mine in earth" to say "Be mine in heaven" I could not wait for thee. I go alone, wearing my spousal ring, My bridal throne is ready. But, although I love thee now with only such a love As a dead saint might love that looked from Heaven, It is no sin that I should yearn for thee That thou mightst also rise and lift thyself Out from the world, leaving its honeyed wines That overglad the heart, its corn and oil, For the barren mountain-summit near God's stars, In the cold pure air where the earth's growths dwine off, Leaving the joys of common life, the pride, The beauty and the love; perceiving nought Except the goal of such a holiness As I would bid thee strive for. Ah! my brother, If this might be, and we two, though apart, Were one in such an aim! But can I tell If thou art Angelo whom once I knew? She with her silly beauty, smiling forth The brightness of her self-complacency Till one might easily be taken in And fancy she'd at least just so much heart As served to wish one well with-may she not By now have dazzled thee or flattered thee Till thou hast given her thy heart for plaything-- All she could make of it! It might be so: For there were times, when thou and I, poor children, Were chafing impotent while stronger hands Made havoc of our simple lovers' plot, That I half jealous, though I doubted not Thy inmost faith to me, thought piteously: "Ah but for the marvellous gold of those loose curls, And the glitter of those crystal-brown strange eyes Perfect in sudden glances and drooped coyness, He might have made them know the task too hard To bend him to their scheming." Yes, I feared, Even while I said: "I wrong him by the thought" My own own lover, like the warriors In some old fight I knew of ere the lore Of secular things grew babble talk to me, Was dazzled in the eyes by the strong sun, The sun that was her beauty, and so fought As if in the dark and vainly. Could it be? I do not think it. In the days of love One doubts because one loves, because one knows One is too willing to be credulous: But, now that there is no sweet weakness left To daze my judgment, I can vouch for him. He, having, in the teeth of interest And the worldly prudence preached from both our homes, Chosen me to love, me with a mind and soul And woman's worth enough on me to love In something more than pretty kitten's play; Me with some dusky beauty of my own-- If in all else made less by hers yet more, I think, to those who care to see a life Shew through the breathing mask, more by the power (Mine and not hers let her be earth's most fair) To steal from gazing eyes the accurate sense, Of parts and shapings of it and to leave "The long impression"--thus he imaged it-- "Of a beauty like the sky's on some rare eve, When glow and shadow, and the luminous change Of perfect-blended yet contrasted dyes, And blueness of the ether, make a oneness Of something higher than the different names, We fit to different kinds of beauty hold A meaning for; and we can only feel The soul-deep influence, and cannot scan The several parts, nor say 'the best is there' Nor 'I have seen sometimes a richer rose, One morn a purer gold'; nor can retain A perfect presence of it, but retain Mid the deep memories that build up lives, Though out of sight beneath and overlapped By the hiding Present, a long consciousness Of something known beyond mere perfectness." He, prizing me at this, he, knowing me In my true self, and knowing that I loved him, Could he turn patiently to a mere face, A mere most lovely dainty-blossomed face And statue-moulded body--only this? Nothing to meet him in his higher moods; Nothing to rise with him from the dull round Of the drudging daily self; nothing to hold The overflowings of his deeper soul; No mind in which to measure his grave thoughts; No thoughts with which to swell them. Could he drop From the proud height of my love to such as hers, Unconscious of the fall and well-content? No: time may have perchance, (tho' for his sake I cannot hope it), levelled down to her His husband's heart, but that were but the fret And gradual moulding of the many days, And over-mastering custom: she had never That triumph on me. Though my mother once, (Breaking the shadowy twilight where I sat Lest she should see me weep, with flouting light, And the sad quiet of my lonely thoughts With most unwonted icy comforting), Bade me believe, because she had the proofs, Or almost proofs, that Angelo was glad To be compelled to her whom he would call Even in my hearing 'Fairest of the roses' And, though he prized me in a certain sort For the memory of a boyhood's rash first love And out of kindness to my love for him, It was perceived by those who knew him best-- Nay more was growing common talk to them-- That his fancy for me palled apace and love For the bright Giulia overmastered quite The stress he put to hide it for the sake Of humouring my weakness to the last, And saving me from scorn's deriding finger That mocks the maiden who is true too long She said it, yes, just in such sudden words, Unwavering: but I, did I believe? Too much was said; no doubt a little less, An inference, a little sharp-barbed hint Touching my sometimes fears and making them More real to me, might have served the need; But such a tale was idle as the threats Of the outside wind wild-storming in the dark To one who sleeps well-housed. Why, all the more Because he never shrank from giving praise, To that most evident beauty though I heard, I knew what worth the pretty plaything's smiles Were counted at in his more earnest moods. She touch his heart! my very bitterest fears Were that his mere man's fancy might be caught, And harm be done before the cloying came. You did but anger me, proud mother mine, With your pretended soothings. Was it worth Having queened it for so many frigid years Over your daughters' lives and never once Stooped to a little pet word, or a kiss Beyond the formal seal that stamped receipt Of our daily homage paid, or just a look; To shew you knew what mother-loving meant-- Was it worth to come down from your pedestal At the last moment thus to play the part Of a mere common woman softening down Her girl's weak grief at fate inevitable? You could not do it either; for your talk Of sorrow and of sympathy was such As singing might be coming from one deaf But newly learning speech by watching lips. Yet, maybe, at the last she felt some pang, Maybe, altho' she would not change her purpose-- Could not perhaps--our uncle has some power I think, beyond advising, in the house He rules with her by such an iron rod, And, once our destinies mapped out by him What human will, what human suffering Could alter them? "We have concluded thus"-- Swelling himself in the authority Of priestly greatness and of guardianship; "We have concluded thus"--and then my mother Would nod assent, and what remained to us His brother's children, hers, but mute submission? But she, maybe, the parting near, was moved, The mother-heart in her touched thro' the frosts Long custom had clogged round it; or else why Should she at all have tried to mould my will Into content? She might have kept her height Of questionless command: what mattered it If I should fret or no? Thus stood the case: There were too many daughters in our home, Too scanty portioning, and, with a name So high as ours, need was that none should wed But with the other noblest houses: then It must not be that one of the three sons Should be too poor to bear up from the dust The honour of his heirship of long race: And where were dowers for such brides, and where Gold purses for the spending of such sons? At least one dower might be saved, one girl Must choose the cloister. Who but Eva then? Eva who, wise with fifteen years of life, Had recognized her call to saintly life: Eva who, in her folly of eighteen, Had chosen for herself such a mad match, Impossible, with one even as herself Of an impoverished house, whose princely kin Wise-judging knew the pair must never wed And had a richer bride in hand for him. What mattered it if I said 'yea' or 'nay' 'It likes me' or 'it likes me not'? There stood The argument, could weeping alter it, Or a girl's angers? Why should she have cared To set herself a task so out of wont, Unless she felt some yearning to her child And fain would have me sorrow something less And go from her in peace? Yes, I will think You did mean kindness and the comforting That angered pride might give me in my need. But, mother, had you known a little more Of your child's heart, of any human heart, You would have known what bitter death in life Your words believed would bring me, stabbing me With the last despair of scorning while I loved. And, since you could not fail to recognize Something of your own pride retraced in me, I marvel you saw not how you must rouse Its strength against belief with such a tale. A meek prompt faith! for the blowing of some breaths Of "thus they say"s to think oneself so slight As to be brushed off like a clinging burr, Shaken into the mud beneath his feet By the man one honoured with one's whole of love! And more, I marvel that you did not feel "Her Angelo is out of reach of scorn, And she could not believe unless she scorned," And know untried the vainness of your talk. Oh, only love, I never broke my truth By questionings of yours, and you, I know, Had in me that blind trust that was my right-- And yet we are apart. Oh! it is hard! Has God condemned all love except of Him? Will He have only market marriages Or sprung from passion fancies soon worn out, Lest any two on earth should partly miss The anger and distrust that haunt earth's homes And cease to know there is no calm till death? None for who lives the outside waking life: We are calm here, calm enough. Oh Angelo Why am I here in the ceaseless formal calm That makes the soul swell to one bursting self And seem the whole great universe, the while It only sees itself, learns of itself, Hopes for itself, feeds, preys upon itself And not one call comes to it from without "Think of me too, a little live for me, Take me with thee in growing nearer God"? Why am I--? Am I mad? Am I mad? I rave Some blasphemy which is not of myself! What is it? Was there a demon here just now By me, within me? Those were not my thoughts Which just were thought or spoken--which was it? Oh not my thoughts, not mine! All saints of heaven Be for me, answer for me; I am yours, I am your Master's, how can I be Satan's? I have not lost my soul by the wild words. Not yet, not yet. Oh this was what I feared. The night-watch is a long one and I flag, My head is hot, I feel the fever fire Of weariness before the languor comes. I am left prey to Satan's snares for those Who too much live again the former life In the dangerous times of unwatched loneliness. He lurks in those retrodden paths, he makes His snaky coils of all these memories, Clogging them round my spirit. Is the work Of long long months, of years, undone in a night? Alas! the ordeal is too hard for me. I am shut out in the dark! where is the oil To feed the virgin's lamp? What! are these tears Only of water? They should be of blood Fitter to weep my sin in. I will wait; I cannot gather those old histories. My mind is wandering. I cannot tell How far I went, nay, if I had begun. I cannot think. But I can weep and pray. Surely I may break thus much the command And yet obey. Oh I may stop to pray And to repent. Oh I may weep and pray, So broken as I am. All saints of Heaven Pray with me, for me, pray or I am lost. I lost! I lost! Heaven's mercy on me, lost! Have I slept? But no, I think I was in prayer The whole time that I knelt--unless indeed A little heavy moment at the last; It is too chill for sleep. How strange and grey The morning glimmers! What an awful thing, Although one feels not why, the silence is When the new creeping light treads on the dark Like a white mist above it, and beside Its leaden pallor hollow blacknesses Lurk, shifting into limp uncertain shapes. No place so long familiar but it seems Weird and unwonted in such eery hours. I wish my taper could have lingered out, Until the yellow dawn. Was that the wind Hissing between the jarring lattice crannies, Or a whispering voice in the room? Hush there again! Nay 'tis the wind. What voice should come to me? I hear no voices, I; no visions yet Break on my trancèd eyes when I seek God. I have not risen so high; neither I think Fallen so at Satan's mercy that he dare Front me with open tokens of the watch Which he keeps whensoe'er one of his foes Keeps holy watch alone. Yes, there again! It is the rising wind-gust. How it moves The shadow of that pine-bough on the wall, Just growing plain-defined upon the square The window makes of light across the room. One might see it like an arm now, finger stretched In act to curse--a withered witch-like arm Waving its spells. But then another shadow, The cross from the mullions, lies athwart it there And that is steady. So the cross prevails Over the curse. Nay I am idle now Wasting my vigil time in childish pranks With unloosed fancy. Though I seem too tired To school my wayward thoughts it must be done, They must not wander thus. But this grey glint, Not light nor darkness, but between, like dreams When one has slept and struggles to awake, Unfits one for the real things of thought. I wonder is the spirit-world more near In the mystery of twilight than when day Floods its broad reckless sunlight everywhere. One feels it nearer. In these creeping hours One might so readily, when one had prayed With a spiritual passion half the night To have some message sent one, something shown That should reveal one clearly chosen His To glorify Him to the world, be fooled By eager faith and think that in the dusk One saw the longed-for vision, or one knew A voice inborne upon one's soul; while yet The high revealings were not granted one Found too unworthy still. Sometimes I think For me there is that danger--not to-night, I am so heavy with the weight of sleep Upon my struggling lips--no not to-night; I feel too far from God even to be duped By poor rapt fancy, communing with shadows, Exulting ignorant in the dread deceit Which sets in place of God's most marvellous blessing A mocking and a curse. Yet why a curse? If honour grow to God and nought be falsed Save something in the powers of one poor mind That dreams and is the holier and more glad, What were so much amiss? Why it might be That God works so upon his messengers, Not giving them the visions, as they think, In some true substance, heavenly, made pure From the earth matter, yet left evident To eyes and ears; but giving to their souls A consciousness, nay why not say a dream, Real because He wills, not in itself, Having no outward counterpart? And thus-- Sometimes I think it, pondering on the lives Of some of those most favoured--they might say "I heard, I saw," and speak Heaven's perfect truth, And yet be dreamers in the human sense. Dreamers! and I who fear to dream, and pray To be saved, as from a lurking enemy, From my too eager self! But, if 'twere thus That God revealed Himself, what should one think Of keeping guard against one's passioned hopes For fear of self-deceit? Would that be war Against oneself or God? Why, self deceit Would be that God deceived one, would be truth Beyond the truest human yea and nay. It rather seems one should be effortless, A leaf upon the river, or a leaf At the will of the unwarning winds of heaven, Yes, could one, being in a state of grace, Grow vacant of all will and merely wait In a moodless passive lull, what likelier Than that such were the moment to receive The glow spiritual, and that the quick tide Of thoughts and rapt imaginings flooding in Upon the soul upbreaking from its hush Were not one's own, but Heaven's? Needs there voice Heard with the ears, or shape seen with the eyes, Or aught in contact with the body's sense, To make the spirit's high realities? Who knows what visions are? Why should I fear To think I see and see not? If the Lord Be pleased to press upon His handmaid's soul Revealings of His glory, should I urge Our crude material tests and then "If dreams Then these were nothings"? But such dreams vouchsafed Must be--can I err in thinking this?--God's facts, Beside which all we know by outward proof Were liker nothings, mere clay images To evidence to the lower human life What the divine life in the saint's freed soul Perceives as souls perceive in Heaven. And yet Signs outward have been proved: some have been seen By the eyes of many, crowned with marvellous light, Or in their presence lifted from the earth. There have been visible tokens--was there not Our own St Catherine who received the wounds In an awful mystery, bearing them till death? Or could such be a constant vision pressed On the eyes of all who looked? Yet scarcely that. Still she and such as she would need no proofs; Would know when Heaven was open to them--proofs Are for bystanders; but when lonely saints Unwatched, in still communion with their God, Kneel silently and have forgotten earth, Need the outward sense bear part in ecstasies Sent to the soul or--? What have I to do With questioning knotty matters hard for me A babe in the faith? The dawn is mellowing A little gold into its leaden lights: My time for retrospect creeps to its end, And I cannot think, although I know I dreamed A something of my old life in the night, That I have met the order given me, To the true fullness. Let me try at least Somewhat more like confession of the faults That should be to me in this better state Each a distinct and hated memory. But ah! it is so hard to summon them! Would I were not so weary! Fainting star, Shivering above the strip of presage dawn, Do you tremble at the glory stealing on In which the world will lose you presently? You are like one dying, one who chills and fears While Heaven is closing round to hide his life, He knows not how, with God. Why, it is darked: A little cloud come on it--one might say Death on it, and that when it issues thence It will be flooded with the waiting glory As the saint's soul is. So the martyrs passed-- The blackness of an hour of agony, And then the eternal light, the warmth, the love, The triumph! Ah the second Catherine, Whose painful course I keep before my eyes As one we who live late may still achieve, Has left a sadder wearier history Than the first, the Alexandrian saint's. To live A few short lifeful years made glorious By the open courage daily fronting death, By battle in God's name, and victories On souls fought from false gods, and then to die In the highest victory God has given His own, Die His before the eyes of thousands, die In honour that earth cannot parallel, Nor Heaven itself surpass, die martyr-crowned, The glory of the Church to the end of time, The marvel of the onlooking heathen world! Yes, that, if in this dull indifferent age That owns the creed and neither makes nor mars But lets the saintship grow in the shade and then Scores it to its own credit, such a life Could find a place and such a death be earned, That were the leadership to follow forth With one's whole will and passion. Not perplexed, I think, would such a stirring conflict be, Like that my slow life wages in the dark: And then the grander ending! Yet the years Of patient war on sin and the poor flesh, Of the second Catherine, won her ecstasies Not less than tranced the other, and at last She had her meed of honour, and her name Is all I ought--Oh but I am too fond In my aspiring when I say so much-- Is more than all I ought to hope for mine Among names everlasting. And why not My name among the holy ones like hers? Can I not fast and pray, tear my scarred flesh, Keep vigils day and night, dim my tired eyes With constant weepings, stint my earthly heart Of its most innocent food and starve it numb With ceaseless self-denial, check my life Even in its holiest vents? What could she more? And I, weak as I am and prone to faint, The fever of young life in the free world So newly passed from me, I do not shrink From the sharpest discipline. These many months, Not always fainting, I have schooled myself Upon her rigorous pattern--God alone Knows with what strained endurance--and the proofs Of my hardwon advance are not withheld. At times I feel my soul borne up to Heaven In holy rapture and I seem to breathe A life that is not earth's: at times a hush Falls on my being and I feel at hand The Holy Presence, feeling nought beside, Dulled to all passing round me: and at times An influence is upon me and the fire Is kindled in my heart and my words break Into exultant praises, bursts of love, Or else in warnings and in passionate pleadings Torn out with sobbings and with eloquence That is not mine and urges me myself Even more than the awed sisters who press round, Weeping and shaken to the very souls, And know not what to think of the strange power That thrills them through and through. The mother says "'Tis a good gift--let it have vent, my child; A blessed gift for bettering your soul And ours;" but I perceive that secretly She holds it more than that. The other day She said--a speech so venturous for her That she must long have weighed it--"Daughter, I know That God has work for one like you to do, Although I know not what: prepare for it: Be patient, but be ready." And I knew A reverence in her voice, as though she spoke To one above her. "God has work" she said. Would it were come! I hunger for my work, And see none nearer than my coming rule Over this convent, none more glorious Than the restricting some small laxities In the general discipline. A petty task For which to spur oneself. And yet I know not-- To carry such a change as I have planned To be, as 'twere, through the new saintly practice The second founder of our sisterhood, Perhaps of our whole order, were this not A work to be remembered, work worth me? A troubled one perhaps: the better then. More room for zeal for God, and, overcoming, More to have overcome. Enough to do. The mother, pious as she is, falls short In courage to constrain less pious wills, And wavers at a tear or a chafed look. She is content moreover, sees no lapse In the rigour of our system. 'Twill be mine To bring the stricter laws, to wake the glow Of a new zeal among the sisterhood And fan it into flame, to check the growth Of such self-sparing in the duller sort And baby prattlings and small baby joys In the lighter-natured as we have here now. They must have longer vigils, sharper fasts, Be more alone, have many hours for silence Being together, learn to find their rest, Their pleasure and their converse all in prayer. Our novices must have their freedoms clipped; They are spared too much at first, and spared too long; They need a separate monitress, less lax, Less pitiful-hearted than the mother is, Yet loving them no less, one I shall choose Among those of the sisterhood most true To the new type, one of the saintly band Who, gathering round the flame I shall have lit, Will keep it living and fan on its course Until it soars a beacon to the world, A pure accepted altar-fire to Heaven. I plan and plan, as if in all the years That have to run till then there were not time To fix my ceaseless purposes in shape, And look not meanwhile how these minutes lose The purpose given them and grow too few. The morning flush has broken on the clouds While I sat blindly watching, and wanes off: The shimmering light is broadening into day: The night is gone--another night laid by To wait for us in the sepulchre of Time With his dead children that return no more, Until they rise in witness on The Day To show us as we were when they beheld. The night is gone--and I how have I used it? Ah me! I think, amiss; but I know not. I call to mind a night-long wilderment Of memories and dreams, and some regrets-- I fear me much some semblance of regrets, And a great penitence. Or am I wrong? Did I fall asleep and dream the penitence? For how did I so greatly sin? And yet I do not think sleep snared me, for my mind Was all absorbed, and when 'tis thus the body Is triumphed over. Then I dimly know Some deep mysterious moments--as if then-- How was it? Nay I have forgotten all; It is but like recalling waking dreams After a slumbrous night has dropped on them. But this I think, I cannot cross myself And say "I have performed the allotted task," And take the innocent hour of sleep allowed Before the matin chime. I have not used The sharp assaying meant, but in the place Of pitiless self-rebuke and searchings out Have dreamed, I know not what, a misty world Of shapeless thoughts that stand like new-made ghosts Between the dead and living. Is there time? I must redeem the time. Go, tempting sleep: My rest shall be to earn rest for my conscience. How the day brightens on! "My ancient life With all its sins and follies." Well I set That which for over-long was my all life First on the roll. "My folly and my sin" What else, since for so long it darkened Heaven Out from my tear-blurred sight? But dwelling on it Even now comes nearer sin than penitence. Let the poor love-tale go! Oh never more Let the treacherous memory stir me; it was that That broke my calm last night and-- Let it be, Oh idle heart! Why wilt thou tempt thyself? The dead wasp stings lying in the faded rose When the chills have killed them both--Let the wasp rot: No need to risk a sudden hand to crush it. Let the rose rot too, though its last breath be sweet, Let it drop into the hiding mould-heaps dead With the dead burden that is danger in it. And so, the dead love reckoned, what stands next? Ah the long haunting voice that called my sin Of taking back the life once meant for God So darkly, deadly, near--that only hope Called it not quite--the sin against the Spirit! No, that, the horror of so many months, Had been the foremost, worst, the all, to reckon, Hiding all others in its awfulness, If I still owned it with the strange despair My uncle's words, denouncing, terrible, Made my soul's bitter portion once. But now That dread is past. I was not guilty thus. I know it, in my inmost heart I know it. Good Father Andrea--you who, with your gift Of patient comforting, first lighted me, From that dim horror--you whose pastoral hand Came, while I seemed to wait and care no more, Lone on the dead sea of despondency, And the chill waters lapping round their prey Bore me indifferent to the shores of Hell, Came heaven-blessed and stayed me-I know now With fuller certainty than you could give, By God's own comforting I think. I look Clear-eyed upon that past. The fault was theirs Who thought it wise to rate as purposes The fanciful longings of an almost child Let fall at fluent moments, wise to call Her natural yearnings for some scope beyond The round of foolish struttings petty forms, And petty prides and petty policies Vocation for a ministry to Heaven. What knew I of vocation? I was galled By the bird-snare fetters round me, longed to fly On wild young wings towards the freer Heaven; And, seeing, that the cage hung on the tree Was higher than the nest upon the ground, Said sometimes "Yet at least if I were there," Because I so might reach a purer sky And breathe untainted air; but most of all Because I longed to soar. An almost child: Ah yes. how young I was until my love Awaked me woman. What had I perceived Of the world's earnest? I could lose myself In the high rhapsodies of eager youth, Flame at the wrongs and weakness of the times, And shudder at the sin; could dream the while Of heroisms I no more understood In their plain natures than those names of evils I hurled my angers at; could hope and plan Impossible better things and, imaging A present Paradise of the whole world If men would only think a few new thoughts, Talk reasoning unreason, fiery-tongued, On its blurred good and bad. But what knew I Of its bad or of its good? My reasonings, Silent or spoken in unguarded bursts, What were they but a fluent ignorance Nursed upon dreams? They said, "She is early ripe: Fifteen, and yet she judges of the world As one who has all things tried and found them vain In a grave experience: 'tis a happy thing That she accepts the convent: we are borne clear: She accepts it freely, being mature to choose." And the deep world I thought I weighed and spurned As wanting in the balance, nevertheless Had shown me nothing of its meaning yet: And I had not seen its brightness, had not known What pleasure meant, when saying "It is naught," Nor happiness, when saying "Heaven's is all;" And had not known the triumphs of sweet praise On the general tongue and ringing to the ears Of one dear over all, and had not known The gladness of dear hope, and had not known, Had not conceived, what love was, love-sought love, When saying "Life is weary every day And the wide world is barren to the heart." They were too prompt to take my girlish fits Of dream enthusiasm for the dream I made Of an ideal perfectness withdrawn From reach of sin and sorrow in the hush Of convent calm, and turn them to their will. The fault was theirs. But I, knowing my God Hears me and judges, say I never framed A set intention, spoke one purposed word Pledging me to the life I ranked so high. 'Tis doubtless true, as Father Andrea says, That my accuser bore me in his heart Guiltless of that great blame and did but think To daunt me to submission by a dread So horrible. "Yes, yes, believe me, daughter," The good man always said, "'tis as I told you: His Eminence spoke from prudence, seeing there A way to scare you to your good, no more; Take this for proof--only you must not know How it came to me--he said, even on the day You took the vows, it would have pleased him more If you, instead of flaunting girlish scorn At a certain great alliance hinted yours If you so pleased, had let it be your choice Before the convent." So I take the proof It fits with what his dullard Princeliness-- When he deigned to think that I, although less fair Than the sister he had bought, might please his moods With a more apt variety and reward; His condescending choice by more applause For how his princess played her brilliant part, And, nothing doubting my delight, with mouths Of secrecy and eyes significant, Blinking owl mystery, and "Trust to me" And "Never fear I'll bring the matter through" Confided me his project--seemed to assure As if he had tried his way, "No convent, no; This queenly Eva must not hide from us; She is to shine in the world. Let her but smile And put a little hand in mine; I promise That from that moment none shall frighten her With the hateful veil." And when indignantly I turned on him "And the betrothal, sir, Already fixed with Leonora, that Is a mere mock it seems, a promise given To come for an hour of pastime one fair day That may be broken for some light excuse, Some merrier fooling coming in the way! What pretty trifle have you on your tongue To turn it daintily as a courtier should To our mother and my uncle?" He laughed low. "Leave it to me, child. They are my good friends, And Leonora has a lovely face, And, were she sister to my wife, might have A pretty dower. Ask if they're content When I have told them you are." Add to that A hundred trifles not detected then In their joint significance, which now summed up Make evidence--well, for them or against? Which shall I say? What matters it to me, Except to show that torturing charge, tricked out A bugbear for my conscience, meant no more Than the noises nurses make behind the wall To frighten children quiet in their beds? So let that pass, it need not swell the score. But other sins? the many, what of them? No easy reckoning this. Too well I know My youth was girlish-wayward, too well know My heart fed too much on the things of earth: I know that many follies, many faults, Had scarred that early life that seems so like An innocence in looking back on it: But how to say "In this and this I sinned-- Here evil dashed the good--there all was evil," Seems as if, coming from a woodland path, One should essay to chronicle the thorns Set on the briar rose-trees, count the size And order of the flint-stones by the way Upon the moss-banks and the grassy rims. They were there, one saw them, one remembers that, But one thinks more of the roses. Well but pride, My sin of pride--which we of our old house, Following its long traditions, arrogate A prerogative to ourselves, a loyalty Done to our race--my sin that most to me Seemed virtue-like, that grasped so deep a part Of my natural life that its mere name pronounced Stands for a thousand separate confessions-- Let it take its fitting place, and be my shame That was my ill-placed glory. Poor fond fool To plume myself on having missed the grace Of Heaven's high humility! and then He made the fault so dear, he, when he said He loved me for it--that still summer-day When first was spoken what we knew so well For long before, when a too welcome chance Had lost us from the others laughing on Along the olive slopes, and we two found The boat upon the little silent lake Left all alone, and stole it from its place, And let it drift into the happy shade Beneath the bank where the acacias pushed Their boles into the water through the trails Of creeping briony and red roses drooped Lush sprays above my head. He said it then When I, in the childishness of happy love, Had whispered on his breast that question old And meaningless as the song the linnet sings, The question that glad lovers love to ask And answer and hear answered: "Tell me, love, What made you love me first?" "Perhaps it was, My own proud Eva, that same queenly pride Which, jesting, I have blamed you for, that pride Which keeps you nobler-lived than other women." "My own proud Eva," that was how he called me In many a stolen whisper afterwards: "My own proud darling"--and my idle heart Was ever beating to the pleasant rhythm, And I loved my pride because he loved it in me. Oh! many and many sullen self-despises And frettings at myself and weary moods Of half-revolt and utter hopelessness, When even penitence was tired away And I was only angry, since have paid The forfeit of those self-deceiving days; And I have felt my closest being wrung By the very chains I heaped on it myself To bow it to the need; and I have striven In twofold anguish, torn in my racked mind Between the natural and the new-learned will; And I have sickened at very victory Loathing my lowliness. Ah me! those days How long they were! how cruel! But, I thank The grace of Heaven for it, I endured, I overcame. My pride is crushed at length Into the dust that fits it, and my foot Presses its writhing neck; never again Shall it rise up to chafe and weary me With the old onslaughts. Pride, yes; and, pride confessed, One has confessed a humour over apt To sudden scorns and high-flown discontents And the petulance of disdain. But anger's self, A deadly sin, is nothing more than these; And there too am I guilty. Little bird, Flitting so daintily upon the sill, Hast thou come to tell me with thy matin chirp That all the day-world is astir? I know, But I am fettered to my drowsy thoughts; I cannot gladden to the sun like thee. Chirp, chirp, how glad thou art. Do the dull nights Seem long now in these autumn times? But then, Birdie, thy days are never over long. We cannot say so much, we the world's lords: Often the weary never-ending days Burden us helpless with their dragging weight. Thou art happier than thou knowest--all the more Because thou dost not know that thou art happy. We never wear our happiness so light, Always oppressed by our strong consciousness Whose deeps lie so near pain. Already gone? Yes, fly, wee wanderer, back to thy blithe grove Warm with the earliest sunshine mellowing The curves of spreading tree-tops. Out of sight So soon?--no, on that cypress. What do I Watching the idle rovings of a bird, With vacant purpose? I have thought too long, I lose myself What wonder? In one night To live back all one's youth--though mine was short. And yet it seems a long long age of life Remote by longer ages. Strange it is That the brief exquisite mood of a deep bliss Which, being lived, seemed to be some few hours, Seems, being lost, as if a long life's whole Had passed in it. 'Twas but a year or so, Count it by days upon the calendar, And now-- Oh living days! oh happy days! Oh days adream with happiness!--adream-- Adream--I am with you--Ah yes--adream I am with you What was I pondering Before this drowsy languor stole my will? Let me remember. Yes the sins and follies Of my vain youth. But I had almost done-- Or had I? Where was I in the blurred page Whose half-forgotten fragment-facts from days That were no more all faults than all good deeds I am bidden read in the dusk that time has made? Ah me! how to bethink me? When there grows The counterfeit of some large landscape known In past familiar days upon that sense Which seems an inward memory of the eye-- Grows, at the plainest even, half as if One looked upon it with the former sight-- If one were bidden break the vivid whole Into its several parts traced point by point, Or more, if one were bidden duly note The rocks that broke the smoothness of the lake, Or the black fissures on the great snow-hills, Or say the pools along the marshy wastes, How the thought-picture would become perplexed Into a shifting puzzle, and the sight Would ache that vainly tried to scan by units. Even so it seems to me when I essay To singly look upon the marring flaws That foiled my youth's best virtues, or on those That of its evil made the blackest scars. Weary, so weary of the effort! Nay I will remember! Well, my girlish days Were full of faults--were doubtless full of faults-- Were full of faults: but what were the faults' names? I am forgetting what I seek--their names? Why there was many a paltry selfishness-- Many no doubt, for I was often shamed To be so much below the self I dreamed-- Only I cannot call them singly back. And there were pettish quarrels, girlish-wise, With one or other of the rest at home, Oftenest with Leonora, though, I think, We chose each other most, and she has kept My memory dearest of them; she alone Remembers my old name-day, comes to me, As if it still were festival to me, With flowers, and calls me Eva. Does she guess, I wonder, that I could have stolen her greatness? Poor Leonora, would she have lost much? Wife's sister to the prince instead of wife; That dowry he designed her for amends, To make her welcome to some simpler home-- Perhaps with love with it, such as we hoped When we were lovers--Yes, perhaps with some one Who could have taught her smiles: she only laughs. I would I knew her happy now! She says She is most happy: but she says she knows Nothing worth sorrow. Nothing! Nothing worth The weeping out one's life for! Nothing worth The wearying after in a waking dream Of all one's days, the straining to one's heart As a mother her one child, her one dead child, Although a plague had stricken it and the end Were her own dying! Nothing worth a sorrow Dearer than any future joy could be, Stronger than love, oh! longer lived than love, Than love itself, a sorrow to be lived for Liked love itself, to be one's closest life! If only one were free to sorrow thus! Oh to be left my sorrow for a while, Only a little while! to weep at will! Oh let me weep a while if but for shame Because I cannot check the foolish passion, Because I weep despite myself. Alas! Oh Lord my helper, when shall I find rest? How sweet those roses smell! Look, Angelo, That cluster of red roses pictured back From the still water. See! see! Catch that branch By your left hand--the boat will drift away! How the boat rocks! how it rocks! Am I ashore? I thought I was in the boat with you. How it rocks! Oh Angelo! What is it? Where am I? Who was it screamed? Was it I? I have been dreaming-- How plain it was at first! We in the boat On the still lake, just as we were that day, The roses drooping on us, and, far spread On the clear water, greenness of the trees. A strangely real dream' And then the change-- The tossing waters I ashore alone Watching--and then--oh! that white anguished face Uplifting from the waters as they heaved About him sinking! Whence came such a dream? He is with Giulia happy. I---- Am here Vowed to the convent, vowed to Heavens service And happy in the faith of Heaven's reward. I have not quite forgotten Whose I am, And in the waking day can call to mind What higher lot is mine and be in it In peace. But yet I would I had not seen That haggard face. I fear me many days Will find it haunting me. It was too like The look he gave me when our eyes last met, When all was over, and there was for us No farewell but that sudden chance-caught look In a busy street, and then we had passed on. The chapel bell at last. Never its sound Has fallen kinder on my ear. Now comes The rest of prayer; and so the day begins Its round of holy duties, and my strength Will grow again towards them. It will pass, This querulous weakness with my weariness-- It has passed; I am strong; I am myself; My God did but forsake me for a while. He hears, He calls me to Him at the shrine. He will forgive me, me whom He has chosen; He will fold me in His love. Am I not His? 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