Upon the eyes, the lips, the feet, <br />On all the passages of sense, <br />The atoning oil is spread with sweet <br />Renewal of lost innocence. <br /> <br />The feet, that lately ran so fast <br />To meet desire, are soothly sealed; <br />The eyes, that were so often cast <br />On vanity, are touched and healed. <br /> <br />From troublous sights and sounds set free; <br />In such a twilight hour of breath, <br />Shall one retrace his life, or see, <br />Through shadows, the true face of death? <br /> <br />Vials of mercy! Sacring oils! <br />I know not where nor when I come, <br />Nor through what wanderings and toils, <br />To crave of you Viaticum. <br /> <br />Yet, when the walls of flesh grow weak, <br />In such an hour, it well may be, <br />Through mist and darkness, light will break, <br />And each anointed sense will see.<br /><br />Ernest Christopher Dowson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/extreme-unction-2/
