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THE DOOM OF THE PRYNNES.
41
" O misty twilight, grey and wan,
That like a ghost steals darkly on,
And halts not, nor relents ;
I dare not front your visage pale,
Nor come within your solemn veil,
Until my soul repents :
" Repents of woman's need and claims,
Of instincts, passions, holiest aims,
And clinging, beating heart ;
Although I would not have it so,
The spirits will not rise and go
Because I cry, ' Depart.'
" What though I kneel like marble saint,
My very soul grows sick and faint
At thought of such repose ;
My hands may clasp in stony calm,
But, each on each, the throbbing palm
In burning anguish glows.
" Oh, Jesus, son of Mary, hear,
And in Thy plenitude draw near,
And piteously forgive :
