Classic Poem

I

O see how narrow are our days,
How full of fear our bed;
We reach out awkward arms always
To gather the roses red.

Thou must be mild to us, Mary,
Out of Thy blood we blow;
And what a pain is yearning
Thou alone canst know;

For Thou hast known this maiden's woe
In Thine own soul's desire;
It feels as cold as Christmas snow,
And yet is all on fire...

II

AFTER THE PRAYER

But I feel how my heart is glowing
Warmer and warmer in my breast,
And every evening poorer growing,
Nor any night can bring me rest.

I tear at the white silken tissue,
And my shy dreams cry out to Thee:
Let me be sorrow of Thy sorrow,
O let us both
By the same wonder wounded be.