SISTER CECILY

Alas for Sister Cecily!

To whom prayeth she,

Till feet are numb and pained knees torn

        And pale lips inward driven,

Eye‑lifting orisons at morn,

        Low‑lidded prayers at even?

She prayeth to Mary, Mother and Queen,

Who still hath been

Who keepeth child and maid from harm,

        Our Lady with eyes of dole,

With a lily along her conscious arm

        And a virgin's aureole.

For of the Virgin it is said

That she hath bled

At seven pains for her sad son

        And therefore for us all,

Whose souls by heavenly hands are spun

        Out of the same white wool.

So to her prayeth Cecily,

That all may be

Washed pure in the perennial fount

        Where the saints meet,

And given to reach the Shining Mount

        Though with torn feet.

And though she know me not, nor pray

For me, oh! may

Her prayer for man's woe make me part

        Of what she says,

So a vague rest fall on my heart

        Because she prays.