Cold eyelids that hide like a jewel
⁠Hard eyes that grow soft for an hour;
The heavy white limbs, and the cruel
⁠Red mouth like a venomous flower;
When these are gone by with their glories,
⁠What shall rest of thee then, what remain,
O mystic and sombre Dolores,
⁠Our Lady of Pain?

Seven sorrows the priests give their Virgin;
⁠But thy sins, which are seventy times seven,
Seven ages would fail thee to purge in,
⁠And then they would haunt thee in heaven:
Fierce midnights and famishing morrows,
⁠And the loves that complete and control
All the joys of the flesh, all the sorrows
⁠That wear out the soul.

O garment not golden but gilded;
⁠O garden where all men may dwell,