The Book of a Monk's Life

I live my life in circles that grow wide And endlessly unroll, I may not reach the last, but on I glide Strong pinioned toward my goal. About the old tower, dark against the sky, The beat of my wings hums, I circle about God, sweep far and high On through milleniums. Am I a bird that skims the clouds along, Or am I a wild storm, or a great song? Many have painted her. But there was one Who drew his radiant colours from the sun. Mysteriously glowing through a background dim When he was suffering she came to him, And all the heavy pain within his heart Rose in his hands and stole into his art. His canvas is the beautiful bright veil Through which her sorrow shines. There where the Texture o'er her sad lips is closely drawn A trembling smile softly begins to dawn ... Though angels with seven candles light the place You cannot read the secret of her face. In cassocks clad I have had many brothers In southern cloisters where the laurel grows, They paint Madonnas like fair human mothers And I dream of young Titians and of others In which the God with shining radiance glows. But though my vigil constantly I keep My God is dark—like woven texture flowing, A hundred drinking roots, all intertwined; I only know that from His warmth I'm growing. More I know not: my roots lie hidden deep My branches only are swayed by the wind. Thou Anxious One! And dost thou then not hear Against thee all my surging senses sing? About thy face in circles drawing near My thought floats like a fluttering white wing. Dost thou not see, before thee stands my soul In silence wrapt my Springtime's prayer to pray? But when thy glance rests on me then my whole Being quickens and blooms like trees in May. When thou art dreaming then I am thy Dream, But when thou art awake I am thy Will Potent with splendour, radiant and sublime, Expanding like far space star-lit and still Into the distant mystic realm of Time. I love my life's dark hours In which my senses quicken and grow deep, While, as from faint incense of faded flowers Or letters old, I magically steep Myself in days gone by: again I give Myself unto the past:—again I live. Out of my dark hours wisdom dawns apace, Infinite Life unrolls its boundless space ... Then I am shaken as a sweeping storm Shakes a ripe tree that grows above a grave 'Round whose cold clay the roots twine fast and warm— And Youth's fair visions that glowed bright and brave, Dreams that were closely cherished and for long, Are lost once more in sadness and in song.