Morning of the Soul

A poem from a night in the monastery:


All is quiet; now I can mime

No longer swells the snow in gale:

Thy cloud of unknowing, hour sublime,

It hath struck midnight, quiet and pale. 


Thoughts rise upon my unconscious breast

Sheltering snares of vice to me unknown?

Thy bosom wishes something repressed

It hath blushed, and my conscience flown? 


Let not be horrid dreams affrighted

With a dove absconded by wild eagles;

Thy strange vision, the snow is bright,

Display the hope of yonder skies. 


Pleased be the morning of my soul,

My body awakened from grave’s repose,

Dawn draws nigh with a wide sigh,

As pure as mine spirit yielded up close. 


The curtains open with a friendly-hand,

My pilgrim eyes will shun no-one:

Thy will love the lessons by high command,

Protected will be your virtues as they are won.


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