These memories of fault. Earth does not wear
Her scarlet woodbine all the year, to pain
Her beating heart with constant self-reproach.
Content with frank and full confession once,
The trembling vine, with sighing of the wind,
Drops slowly, one by one, its deep red leaves.
So having won forgiveness from myself,
Listening I hear the far-off harmonies
Of solemn chant in heaven: “Though thy sins
Had been as scarlet, they shall be like wool.”