The Monk In His Garden

The air is heavy with a mist of spice, Vervain and agrimony, clove and rue, Have I not paid, have I not paid the price? How shall these tempters torture me anew?

I close my eyes and dream the incense drifts Over the monstrance, and the acolyte Swings the gold censer. Then the vision lifts: I know the poisonous joys I have to fight.

Day with its flowers and yellow butterflies, Holds for my heart no pain, the wind is free That blows upon my garden from far skies, Yet may I hold it in white chastity.

But night!--and the still air!--Ah, God above, Have I the strength to wage thy war anew? Blot out my senses or I die for love,-- Vervain and agrimony, clove and rue!