THE MONK

When in my narrow cell I lie,

The long day’ s penance done at last,

I see the ghosts of days gone by,

And hear the voices of the past.

I see the blue-gray wood-smoke curled

From hearths where life has rhymed to love,

I see the kingdoms of the world —

The glory and the power thereof,

And cry, “Ah, vainly have I striven!”

And then a voice calls, soft and low:

“Thou gavest My Earth to win My Heaven;

But Heaven-on-Earth thou mayest not know!”

It is not for Thy Heaven, O Lord,

That I renounced Thy pleasant earth —

The ship, the furrow, and the sword —

The dreams of death, the dreams of birth!

Weary of vigil, fast, and prayer,

Weak in my hope and in my faith —

O Christ, for whom this cross I bear,

Meet me beside the gate of Death!

When the night comes, then let me rest

( O Christ, who sanctifiest pain! )

Falling asleep upon Thy breast,

And, if Thou wilt, wake never again!