Forgiveness by George William Russell — Read

At dusk the window panes grew grey; / The wet world vanished in the gloom; / The dim and silver end of day / Scarce glimmered through the little room.

And all my sins were told; I said / Such things to her who knew not sin -- / The sharp ache throbbing in my head, / The fever running high within.

I touched with pain her purity; / Sin's darker sense I could not bring: / My soul was black as night to me: / To her I was a wounded thing.

I needed love no words could say; / She drew me softly nigh her chair, / My head upon her knees to lay, / With cool hands that caressed my hair.

She sat with hands as if to bless, / And looked with grave, ethereal eyes; / Ensouled by ancient quietness, / A gentle priestess of the Wise.