With cassock black, baret and book,
Father Saran goes by;
I think he goes to say a prayer
For one who has to die.
Even so, some day, Father Saran
May say a prayer for me;
Myself meanwhile, the Sister tells,
Should pray unceasingly.
They kneel who pray: how may I kneel
Who face to ceiling lie,
Shut out by all that man has made
From God who made the sky?
They lift who pray — the low earth-born —
A humble heart to God:
But O, my heart of clay is proud —
True sister to the sod.
I look into the face of God,
They say bends over me;
I search the dark, dark face of God —
O what is it I see?
I see — who lie fast bound, who may
Not kneel, who can but seek —
I see mine own face over me,
With tears upon its cheek.
II
If my dark grandam had but known,
Or yet my wild grandsir,
Or the lord that lured the maid away
That was my sad mother,
O had they known, O had they dreamed
What gift it was they gave,
Would they have stayed their wild, wild love,
Nor made my years their slave?
Must they have stopped their hungry lips
From love at thought of me?
O life, O life, how may we learn
Thy strangest mystery?