Up the long windings of the heavenly stair, And heard the angels singing loud and sweet, And neared the gate, when sudden both my feet Were caught amid the tangles of thy hair,-- Spread like a cruel web across my path,-- In which I struggled, mad with woe and wrath, And could not free me; so at last I fell, Stumbling and plunging down to blackest Hell, Wherein I cursed the hour I saw thy face, And most I cursed the hour, the day, the place When thou didst give me love.... Waking then, I strove For holier thoughts, and could at last forgive The wrong thou didst me. But no more, I prithee, vex me with thy tale Of love. It wearieth me, and henceforth I must live In larger peace, or I may not prevail Within the Schools Against the babbling of the narrow fools Who blindly are withstanding my new light Upon the Divine Essence's nature, and my clasp Of the ringed Trinitarian mysteries. Matters your slight Woman's comprehension may not grasp.... Farewell. Neglect not prayer. Heloïse to Abelard. My good Lord Abbot:--But this once I speak, and then no more. I must not 'gainst the lore Of the great Schools Set my weak cries For warmth and life and love. The snow now lies Deep round the Paraclete, Where from my pale nuns rise In never ceasing chant of nones and primes Incense of prayers to ease the need of God For broken contrite hearts and dropping tears. And sometimes I have fears That each one wears 'Neath her long habit As sad a heart as mine, For in their eyes, Which each unto the skies Lifts many times each day, I see desire for love, A gift they pray From God, since man gives not That which they need. I watch them from my carven chair, While lingering on a bead, And add, beneath my hood, Beads to my rosary of tears To think how good To each 'twould seem to change This Latin drone and censer's clank For the dear homely noise Around the hearth Of little girls and boys-- For all these weary prayers The daily household cares For some tired labourer Who earned their bread. Oh, little hands and feet!-- There is no room Within this cloistered tomb Wherein we worship God, For one dear curly head. * * * * *