Thou didst lie down to render up thy breath:
Though after the seventh sword, no meaner knife
Could pierce that bosom. No, nor did: no sting
Of pain was there; but only joy. The love,
So long thy life ecstatic, and restrained
From setting free thy soul, now gave it wing;
Thy body, soon to reign with it above,
Radiant and fragrant, as in trance, remained.
VIGIL OF THE IMMACULATE CONCEPTION
By Maurice Francis Egan