She holds the woodbine, swaying in the wind,
A crimson rosary of remembered sins.
How shall we keep this solemn festival,
Thou, O my heart, and I? have we no sins
It would be well, confessing here to-night,
To know forgiven? Not to some gentle friend
Whose tenderness ere half the tale were told
Would silence it with kisses; but before
A more severe tribunal in my own
Exacting soul, that could endure no blot