The poem
AT dusk the window panes grew grey; The wet world vanished in the gloom; The dim and silver end of day Scarce glimmered through the little room.
And all my sins were told; I said Such things to her who knew not sin— The sharp ache throbbing in my head, The fever running high within.
I touched with pain her purity; Sin’s darker sense I could not bring: My soul was black as night to me; To her I was a wounded thing.
I needed love no words could say; She drew me softly nigh her chair, My head upon her knees to lay, With cool hands that caressed my hair.
She sat with hands as if to bless, And looked with grave, ethereal eyes; Ensouled by ancient Quietness, A gentle priestess of the Wise.