The nuns sing, “ora pro nobis,”
The lancets glitter above;
And the beautiful Virgin whose robe is
Woven of infinite love,
Infinite love and sorrow,
Prays for them there on high;—
Who has most need of her prayers,— to-morrow
Shall tell them,— they or I?
Up in the hills together
We loved, where the world seemed true;
Our world of the whin and heather,
Our skies of a nearer blue,
A blue from which one borrows
A faith that helps one die —
O Mother, sweet Mother of Sorrows,
None needs such more than I!
We lived, we loved unwedded —
Love's sin and its shame that slays!—
No ill of the year we dreaded,
No day of its coming days;
Its coming days, their many
Trials by morn and night,
And I know no land, not any,
Where love's lilies grow so white!
Was he false to me, my Mother!
Or I to him, my God!—
Who gave thee right, O brother!
To take God's right and rod!
God's rod of avenging morrows,
And the life here in my side!
O Mother, God's Mother of Sorrows,
For both I would have died!
By the wall of the Chantry kneeling,
I pray and the organ rings,
“Gloria! gloria!” pealing,
“Sancta Maria” sings!
They will find us dead to-morrow
By the wall of their nunnery,
O Mother, sweet Mother of Sorrow!
His unborn babe and me.