Songs of the Spirit

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