56
Maddalena's confession.
As 'twere a blossom, on His holy shrine,
Kept sacred, all, from love's profaning touch!
Kept sacred, all, from love's profaning touch!
Last fled I here. With many tears, my mother,
Wouldst thou have stayed me, and Jacopo,—nay,
I was appalled to look on his white lips!
Once, I remember, in my brief novitiate
When by the convent wall, I paused to mark
The singing of a bird, and from above
There dropped a written scroll. Oh saints, what wild,
Idolatrous words defaced its blotted page!
I dared not look upon the writer's name.
'Twas sin to read, I know, for all the morn
There was that ringing through my unquiet soul
That outvoiced organ, chorister, and priest!
Wouldst thou have stayed me, and Jacopo,—nay,
I was appalled to look on his white lips!
Once, I remember, in my brief novitiate
When by the convent wall, I paused to mark
The singing of a bird, and from above
There dropped a written scroll. Oh saints, what wild,
Idolatrous words defaced its blotted page!
I dared not look upon the writer's name.
'Twas sin to read, I know, for all the morn
There was that ringing through my unquiet soul
That outvoiced organ, chorister, and priest!
