THE MONK IN HIS GARDEN
The air is heavy with a mist of spice,
Vervain and agrimony, clove and rue,
Have I not paid, have I not paid the price?
How shall these tempters torture me anew?
I close my eyes and dream the incense drifts
Over the monstrance, and the acolyte
Swings the gold censer. Then the vision lifts:
I know the poisonous joys I have to fight.
Day with its flowers and yellow butterflies,
Holds for my heart no pain, the wind is free
That blows upon my garden from far skies,
Yet may I hold it in white chastity.
But night!—and the still air!—Ah, God above,
Have I the strength to wage thy war anew?
Blot out my senses or I die for love,—
Vervain and agrimony, clove and rue!