THE clouds were heapèd like an evil dream, A wall of blackness in the western skies, But over them the shining air did seem Even clearer than your eyes. And for the seven sorrows of her soul Mary has kindled seven great stars above. Into the troubled heaven a radiance stole Even whiter than our love. O Heart, this evening let me watch alone, That something of the light reflected thus, Even when the journey of the star is done, May still remain to us. |