O women， kneeling by your altar-rails long hence，

    When songs I wove for my beloved hide the prayer，

    And smoke from this dead heart drifts through the violet air

    And covers away the smoke of myrrh and frankincense；

    Bend down and pray for all that sin I wove in song，

    Till the Attorney for Lost Souls cry her sweet cry，

    And call to my beloved and me： ‘No longer fly

    Amid the hovering， piteous， penitential throng.‘