Stricken

O love, behold thy feet are shod with flame! 
Thy body clothed with torture as a dress; 
Too weak thy stricken lips are to express 
Thy mighty grief, or call upon the name 
Of Him who gives the sorrow and the shame. 
Thy lips have tasted the salt bitterness 
Of tears like blood, wrung out of thy distress. 
Thy soul must reap a barren, bitter fame. 

Fair lands beneath thee, and fair skies above. 
Thy heart falls blind, outside of that fair land 
Whereto it may not come; all words are vain, — 
It is the unattainable we love. 
But rest a little, and a friendly hand 
Shall give thee peace, and ease from all thy pain.