O woma, 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.'