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ST. AGNES.

I.

DEEP On the convent-roof the snows
Are sparkling to the moon:

My breath to heaven like vapor goes:
May my soul follow soon!

The shadows of the convent-towers
Slant down the snowy swɛ rd,

Still creeping with the cree] ing hours
That lead me to my Lord:

Make Thou my spirit pure and clear

As are the frosty skies,

Or this first snowdrop of the year

That in my bosom lies.

II.

As these white robes are soiled and dark,

To yonder shining ground;

As this pale taper's earthly spark,

But these, though fed with careful dirt,
Are neither green nor sappy;
Half-conscious of the garden-squirt,
The poor things look unhappy.

Better to me the meanest weed

That blows upon its mountain, The vilest herb that runs to seed Beside its native fountain.

And I must work through months of toil,

And years of cultivation,
Upon my proper patch of soil,
To grow my own plantation.
I'll take the showers as they fall,
I will not vex my bosom :
Enough, if at the end of all
A little garden blossom.

ST. AGNES.

I.

DEEP On the convent-roof the snows
Are sparkling to the moon :

My breath to heaven like vapor goes:
May my soul follow soon!

The shadows of the convent-towers
Slant down the snowy sward,

Still creeping with the cree] ing hours
That lead me to my Lord:

Make Thou my spirit pure and clear

As are the frosty skies,

Or this first snowdrop of the year

That in my bosom lies.

II.

As these white robes are soiled and dark,

To yonder shining ground;

As this pale taper's earthly spark,

But these, though fed with careful dirt,
Are neither green nor sappy;
Half-conscious of the garden-squirt,
The poor things look unhappy.
Better to me the meanest weed

That blows upon its mountain,
The vilest herb that runs to seed
Beside its native fountain.

And I must work through months of toil,

And years of cultivation, Upon my proper patch of soil,

To grow my own plantation. I'll take the showers as they fall, I will not vex my bosom : Enough, if at the end of all

A little garden blossom.

ST. AGNES.

I.

DEEP On the convent-roof the snows
Are sparkling to the moon:
My breath to heaven like vapor goes:
May my soul follow soon!

The shadows of the convent-towers
Slant down the snowy sword,

Still creeping with the cree] ing hours

That lead me to my

Lord:

Make Thou my spirit pure and clear

As are the frosty skies,

Or this first snowdrop of the year

That in my bosom lies.

II.

As these white robes are soiled and dark,

To yonder shining ground;

As this pale taper's earthly spark,

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