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SONNET.
A YOUNG CONVERT.
Mio cor in sul fiorire e in sul far frutto.
Petrarca.
Who knows what days I answer for to-day?
Giving the bud I give the flower. I bow
This yet unfaded and a faded brow;
Bending these knees and feeble knees, I pray.
Thoughts yet unripe in me I bend one way,
Give one repose to pain I know not now,
One leaven to joy that comes, I guess not how.
Oh, rash! (I smile) as one, when Spring is grey,
Who dedicates a land of hidden wheat.
I fold to-day at altars far apart
Hands trembling with what toils? In their retreat
I sign my love to come, my folded art.
I light the tapers at my head and feet,
And lay the crucifix on this silent heart.
