The sparrows wake beneath the convent eaves; I think I have not slept the whole night through. But I am old; the aged scarcely know The times they wake and sleep, for life burns down; They breathe the calm of death before they die. The long night ends, the day comes creeping in, Showing the sorrows that the darkness hid, The bended head of Christ, the blood, the thorns, The wall's gray stains of damp, the pallet bed Where little Sister Marta dreams of saints, Waking with arms outstretched imploringly That seek to stay a vision's vanishing. I never had a vision, yet for me Our Lady smiled while all the convent slept One winter midnight hushed around with snow-- I thought she might be kinder than the rest, And so I came to kneel before her feet, Sick with love's sorrow and love's bitterness. But when I would have made the blessed sign, I found the water frozen in the font, And touched but ice within the carved stone. The saints had hid themselves away from me, Leaving the windows black against the night; And when I sank upon the altar steps, Before the Virgin Mother and her Child, The last, pale, low-burnt taper flickered out, But in the darkness, smooth and fathomless, Still twinkled like a star the holy lamp That cast a dusky glow upon her face. Then through the numbing cold peace fell on me, Submission and the gracious gift of tears, For when I looked, Oh! blessed miracle, Her lips had parted and Our Lady smiled! And then I knew that Love is worth its pain And that my heart was richer for his sake, Since lack of love is bitterest of all.