AT dusk the window panes grew grey; <br />The wet world vanished in the gloom; <br />The dim and silver end of day <br />Scarce glimmered through the little room. <br /> <br /> <br />And all my sins were told; I said <br />Such things to her who knew not sin— <br />The sharp ache throbbing in my head, <br />The fever running high within. <br /> <br /> <br />I touched with pain her purity; <br />Sin's darker sense I could not bring: <br />My soul was black as night to me; <br />To her I was a wounded thing. <br /> <br /> <br />I needed love no words could say; <br />She drew me softly nigh her chair, <br />My head upon her knees to lay, <br />With cool hands that caressed my hair. <br /> <br /> <br />She sat with hands as if to bless, <br />And looked with grave, ethereal eyes; <br />Ensouled by ancient Quietness, <br />A gentle priestess of the Wise.<br /><br />George William Russell<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/forgiveness-131/
