“If thou wouldst heal thee of thy wound,”
  Her voice to heavenly harps attuned
  Bespake me, “Let the sovran tide
  Within this glass thy future guide.” 
  Therewith she gave into my hands
  No hour-glass running golden sands,
  Only a horologe forlorn
  Set against a cross of thorn,
  And cold and stern the current seemed
  That through its clouded crystal gleamed.

  “Immortal one,” I cried, “make plain
  This cure of my consuming pain. 
  Open my eyes to understand,
  And sift the secrets of this sand,
  And measure by its joyless grains
  What yet of life to me remains.”

  “The sand,” she said, “that glimmers grey
  Within this glass, but yesterday
  Was dust at Dives’ bolted door
  Shaken by God’s suffering poor;
  Then by blasts of heaven upblown
  Before the Judge upon His throne
  To swell the ever-gathering cloud
  Of witnesses against the proud—­
  The dust of throats that knew no slaking,
  The dust of brows for ever aching—­
  Dust unto dust with life’s last breath
  Sighed into the urn of Death.”

  With tears I took that cross of thorn,
  With tears that horologe forlorn. 
  And all my moments by its dust
  I measure now with prayerful trust,
  And though my courage oft turns weak,
  Fresh comfort from that cross I seek;
  In wistful hope I yet may wake
  To find the thorn in blossom break,
  And from life’s shivered glass behold
  My being’s sands ebb forth in gold.

THE MOURNER

  When tears, when heavy tears of sharpest sorrow
    Bathe the lone pillow of the mourner’s bed,
  Whose grief breaks fresh with every breaking morrow
    For his beloved one dead,
  If all be not in vain, his passionate prayer
    Shall like a vapour mount the inviolate blue,
  To fall transfigured back on his despair
    In drops of Heavenly dew;

  Nor fail him ever but a cloud unceasing
    Of incense from his soul’s hushed altar start,
  And still return to rise with rich increasing,
    A well-spring from his heart;
  Pure fount of peace that freshly overflowing
    Through other lives shall still run radiant on,
  Till they, too, reap in joy who wept in sowing,
    Long after he is gone.

DE PROFUNDIS

  Out of the darkness I call;
    I stretch forth my hands unto Thee. 
  Loose these fetters that foully enthral;
    To their lock Thou alone hast the key. 
  Low at Thy footstool I fall,
    Forgive and Thy servant is free!

  Folly took hold of my time,
    On pleasure I perched, to my woe;
  I was snared in The Evil One’s lime
    And now all his promptings I know. 
  Crimson as blood is my crime. 
    Yet Thou canst wash whiter than snow.

  Heaven overhead is one frown;
    About me the black waters rave;
  To the deep I go dreadfully down;
    O pluck my feet out of the grave;
  Lord!  I am sinking, I drown,
    O save, for Thou only canst save.