A VISION OF ST. ELIGIUS.

I see thy house, but I am blown about,

A wind-mocked kite, between the earth and sky,

All out of doors — alas! of thy doors out,

And drenched in dews no summer suns can dry.

For every blast is passion of my own;

The dews cold sweats of selfish agony;

Dank vapour steams from memories lying prone;

And all my soul is but a stifled cry.