| O women, kneeling by your altar-rails long hence, |
| When songs I wove for my beloved hide the prayer, |
| And smoke from this dead heart drifts through the violet air |
| And covers away the smoke of myrrh and frankincense; |
| Bend down and pray for all that sin I wove in song, |
| Till the Attorney for Lost Souls cry her sweet cry, |
| And call to my beloved and me: ‘No longer fly |
| Amid the hovering, piteous, penitential throng.’ |