Poems (Waldenburg)/Saint Agnes' Eve

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ST. AGNES' EVE.
Twelve of the clock and the bitter windSobs wildly, wierdly over the moor,And the snow falls down as a robe to bindThe 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 sinOpen the door and enter in  My soul in its woe to win.
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O that I were pure as Saint Agnes of oldAnd my love above the earth;That Jesu spouse in the bright untoldSo holy, so full of worth!A king to worship, and not a clodA trust afar in the Eden of God  Where the steps of the sad ne'er trod!
The pure white light of the dawn cannot pourThrough my soul so dark with sin;For Pride will arise and bar the doorAnd let not the sweet light inFor 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 coldWith 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!
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