Only the respite of a little sleep ; 
Sleep, just a little space of sleep, to rest 
The fevered head and cool the aching eyes ; 
Sleep for a space, to fall upon the breast 
Of the dear God, that He may sympathize. 
Long has the day drawn out ;  a bitter frost 
Sparkles along the streets ;  the shipping heaves 
With the slow murmur of the sea, half lost 
In the last rustle of forgotten leaves. 
Over the bridges pass the throngs ;  the sound, 
Deep and insistent, penetrates the mist— 
I hear it not, I contemplate the wound 
Stabbed in the flanks of my dear silver Christ. 
He hangs in anguish there ;  the crown of thorns 
Pierces that palest brow ;  the nails drip blood ; 
There is the wound ;  no Mary by Him mourns, 
There is no John beside the cruel wood ; 
I am alone to kiss the silver lips ; 
I rend my clothing for the temple veil ; 
My heart’s black night must act the sun’s eclipse ; 
My groans must play the earthquake, till I quail 
At my own dark imagining ;  and now 
The wind is bitterer ;  the air breeds snow ; 
 
6